paint me as the villain
by The Cocky Undead
Summary: Out of everyone that could have captured the Winter Soldier, Fury hadn't expected to be the one to do so. But he didn't question it. After all, who was he to argue when a sharpened weapon was given to him?
1. Chapter 1

[1]

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He didn't know where he was.

He didn't know _who_ he was. Not completely. There were pieces of him scattered throughout his memories, all of them different from the last.

The Asset.

The Winter Soldier.

James Barnes.

Bucky.

All of these names represented him, but he didn't know which one of them he was. None of them felt quite right on his skin. So he shed them all, leaving him nameless for now.

But that was alright.

Being nameless would get the job done.

His head lolled as he tried to straighten his neck and he opened his eyes. He could barely move his fingers and toes, but maybe that was because he was strapped down to an upright metal table of some kind that made a noise of protest at his weak attempts at moving.

Everything was blurry and wavering in front of him. He blinked several times trying to clear his vision, but it only helped a little.

He was able to see that there were men and women scurrying around him, carrying cardboard boxes and other things in their arms. All of them passed him with barely a glance.

Some part of him cautioned at opening his eyes more than a sliver, and his instinct appeared to be correct when he caught sight of the men hovering near the only exit in the room. These men wore black tactical gear, holding rifles in firm grips. Their eyes were flicking around the room, not bothering to help with the cleanup process.

His breathing picked up; he didn't remember much yet, but he knew that those men were there for him.

He tensed against the straps that were wrapped around his limbs and chest, but they fit snugly to his body and even his strong arm couldn't get free, though it whirred angrily in response.

He realized a moment later that there were alarms blaring somewhere in the building, loud enough that it was making it difficult to hear properly, and that red lights were flashing in the cold room, casting a crimson glow on everything.

The red made him think of blood, and his breath picked up again. Somewhere in the back of his mind, images flashed of bodies lying motionless on the floor in a pool blood.

They were all missions. _His_ missions. Nameless and faceless people who he had killed. Back when he had been the Soldier. The Asset.

He recoiled internally against those terms, wishing that he could be Bucky or James, so that he could be a good man instead of a killer.

But he knew that for now, he needed to be that. For now, he was the Soldier. Bucky and James couldn't get the necessary job done. They would recoil at what needed to be done, and he couldn't have that. Not when he was in the heart of HYDRA (because where else could he be?).

He stiffened suddenly, feeling eyes on him, and he abandoned all pretense of unawareness, shifting his gaze to the onlooker.

It was a man in a white coat, who flinched when the Soldier's eyes landed on him, pinning him into place.

"He's aware," the man yelled over the distant alarms, still staring at the Soldier.

The atmosphere in the room shifted from frantic to scared in an instant. They all stared at the Soldier with varying degrees of fear, and he stared back silently.

After a brief moment, one of the men in a white lab coat strode forward, shoving his files at a woman standing near him. He stopped in front of the Soldier, critically looking him over.

He reached forward with a small pen light, flashing it at the Soldier's eyes.

"He's responding normally," the man called over his shoulder. "I think those idiots down on the first floor might not have fucked him up that much. There was worryingly little info on what they did after he was picked up. Morons." This last word was muttered under the man's breath.

One of them in the black gear came to stand next to the man in the white coat. His dark eyes settled on the Soldier, and while this man might have been a threat to normal people, the Soldier wasn't normal, and he felt nothing but contempt for the man in front of him.

"Is he useable, Doctor Franklin?" the man asked. "Or do we need to move him?"

The doctor, Franklin, paused still eyeing him. He didn't look like he wanted to touch the Soldier to do a closer exam, which was smart; the Soldier was in the mood to bite fingers off. "I don't know. I'm not sure what the first floor morons did to clean him up after he was captured again. For all we know, he could have most of his memories from the last mission still intact."

 _I'm not going to fight you. You're my friend._

He blinked against the abrupt words that tore through his mind, but his reaction went unnoticed.

"That doesn't help, doc," the man in the black said, hands tightening on his gun. "Either we use him now or we box him up and send him out of here before shit really hits the fan."

Franklin eyed him again, uncertainty warring in his eyes.

"Use him," he finally said. "We don't have the time to box him up. Besides, hopefully first floor did their job and he's ready to go."

"Yeah, they better have wiped him and doped him," the other man in the black muttered but didn't argue with Franklin.

He motioned behind him to his men, who snapped to attention. Two of them came forward to cluster around their commanding officer, while the other one stayed by the door.

Franklin backed away.

Wisely, as it turned out.

The clasps on the leather straps loosened, freeing the Soldier's arms and chest, and that was enough for him to jerk forward, grabbing two of the soldiers in either hand and cracking their heads together with a satisfying crunch.

The officer swore roughly, jerking his gun up.

The Soldier wasn't worried about taking a bullet; it wouldn't be the first time, but even he wouldn't be able to shake off a bullet to the head.

But then the rifle clicked, jammed, and the officer swore again, desperately trying to pull the slide back in an attempt to clear the chamber and fire.

But he was too slow.

He died with a gurgle as metal fingers crushed his throat.

The room was chaos, most people trying to flee, but those who couldn't were soon lying motionless on the floor in puddles of blood.

A few of them tried to fight back, and the Soldier felt a prick somewhere on his neck like an angry bee, but it was minimal pain and he ignored it, focusing instead on killing those in reach.

He wasn't sure where his aggression was coming from, but he did know that when the fogginess cleared he would remember that it was justified. The blood and crushed bone felt good under his fingers, even while a part of him (the good part. the Bucky part) screamed to stop the violence.

But violence had been fed to him for years and years, and while it wasn't quite all he knew, it was all he wanted for those around him.

He saved Franklin for last.

The man had gotten shoved to the floor in the stampede for the exit, and hadn't managed to get up again. Blood was streaming down his balding head from where his head must have smashed against the floor, dripping onto his white coat and staining it.

Franklin whimpered as he towered over him.

"Stop! Soldier, stop immediately!"

He didn't stop. He stooped down and pulled Franklin up by his throat. The man hung in the air, legs flapping uselessly as his fingers scratched at the hands around his neck. It didn't do any good and he only tore his nails against the Soldier's metal hand. His face was turning purple, and while the Soldier quietly enjoyed Franklin's discomfort, he did have some questions. So, the Soldier eased Franklin's feet to the floor and loosened his fingers a bit.

Franklin coughed and gasped for air, fingers still tight against the Soldier's hands.

"How long?" the Soldier asked, voice rough and cracking.

Franklin's eyes widened.

"Wha-what do you mean?"

"How long have I been here?"

"Two days," Franklin said. "You were found outside the grounds, skulking around the fence, half-starved. We brought you home."

 _Home?_ He was still hazy on the details, but he knew this place wasn't home. Home was...something else, or maybe someone else. He didn't know.

"How long since my last mission?" he asked.

"Months. You've been out in the cold for months, Soldier. Don't you remember?"

He cocked his head to the side; he did remember. At least he remembered the last mission HYDRA had assigned him. But he hadn't been sure how long it had been or what his other missions had been; the memories were there, on the edges of his frayed mind, just out of grasp.

"First floor really did fuck you up," Franklin muttered. "Idiots couldn't even do one thing right. Didn't wipe you properly, or at all by the looks of it, and of course they couldn't be bothered to put you on ice so—"

His eyes widened as the pressure around his neck increased again. He died a moment later.

The Soldier let the body drop to the floor with the others. He looked over them in grim satisfaction. Blood was pooled and splattered along the white walls, giving the room gruesome color.

The adrenaline that had been pumping through his body abruptly stopped and the many nights of no food and general lack of upkeep caught up to him. His legs gave out and he crumbled to the floor among the bodies.

His vision was going blurry, and he steadied himself with one hand. He hated how weak he felt, and knew that if there were more people coming he wouldn't be able to fend them off.

He took a breath, squeezing his eyes shut and thinking back to the night he was caught.

The memory came to his mind easily, and he remembered it clearly. But more importantly he remembered what had come before that: the last mission. He now knew it had been months since he had rescued that man ( _Steve_ ) from the river.

He had been without a mission after that moment, and hadn't known what to do. Emotions and memories had started to worm their way back into his mind, making the choice not to go back to HYDRA for him.

His hands curled at the thought of HYDRA. They had only given him pain. Years and years of it. He couldn't remember all of it, but had whispers of the damage they had caused flickering along the corners of his mind.

It was because of what they had done to him that he had then adopted a mission for himself after days of shivering and screaming himself hoarse in a corner somewhere.

He _needed_ to destroy HYDRA until they captured or killed him. He believed he would never find peace until they were gone (and maybe even then peace might not find him).

It had worked for a bit, and he had spent months going from compound to compound with little regard to his safety or health. Most of the places had been easy for him to burn to the ground.

At first HYDRA had thought he was coming back, but they quickly wised up to the fact that he wasn't their Asset anymore. He shed that name like a snake, becoming a ghost, flitting from one place to the next, killing and leaving only smoldering remains behind.

Of course, he forgot that he needed to do things like eat and sleep, and that had been his mistake.

But it had never been something that he had to think about before; HYDRA had taken care of most of that, keeping him in fighting shape, ready for the next mission.

He had been too weak two days ago and they had sent a force outside the barbed wire to meet him.

He remembered killing most of the team with ferocious effectiveness until they sent another team out and he was forced to give in to his exhaustion.

That was the last thing he remember until he had woken up in this room.

There was no telling what had been done to him for those two days, but that Franklin man had seemed to think the first floor hadn't done their job, which explained his still present memories. They hadn't drilled into his head to snatch them away.

But they had done something else because his limbs were weak; weaker than they should have been, and his head was swimming. He would have been panicking a bit more, but he knew this feeling.

This is what happened when he came back from missions angry and scared with memories of his past knocking around in his mind.

His handlers couldn't contain him when he was like that and eventually they started injecting him with a drug. He didn't know what it was, but it was enough to make him compliant and sometimes reliant on it. He didn't know for sure, but he thought that each base used different types of the same drug. Some of them made him feel heavy and tired, while others would make him beg for more, which wouldn't be given to him. Those ones were the hardest to get past. The drugs that made him reliant took days to shake off, but HYDRA had always made sure he was clean before putting him back into his box.

This appeared to be one of the stronger doses. His back hunched over his hands that were a tangled heap on his thighs. His breathing was picking up and sweat was already beading over his skin.

If he had been any slower at killing the HYDRA men and women after getting injected, he would have been brought down and they would have been able to lock him back up.

They still might if he didn't get out of the base soon.

He didn't know what lay beyond this room, and he realized he still didn't know what the flashing lights and alarm was about.

It was distant worry now; the drug was swimming in his veins.

There was a scuffle of feet outside the door and clipped voices. His eyes snapped up, glaring at the approaching soldiers through the curtains of his filthy hair.

But he had no real fight left in him, and if HYDRA wanted to reclaim him, he wouldn't be able to stop them.

Men dressed in black appeared through the doorway with rifles pressed to their shoulders. They moved with precise movements, marking them as well trained soldiers. If he wasn't fully in the grips of the drug, he might have been a little impressed (not that they would have been able to stop him; there weren't enough of them to bring him down).

There was a sharp intake of breath when they caught sight of him, sitting in the middle of the floor amid the piles of bodies and blood.

"Holy shit—"

"That's...!"

He didn't really know why, but his lips stretched into a humorless grin, making the men, who had frozen on the threshold of the room, flinch back. For a moment, none of them moved. They didn't look like they wanted to get within his reach. He didn't blame them for that.

"Someone call Fury," one of the men said after a beat.

He didn't recognize that name, but that was no surprise really; he had too many holes poked through his mind. But perhaps these men weren't HYDRA.

The thought of them not working for HYDRA filled him with something close to relief, but it was short lived. He might not know who they were, but he couldn't trust the way they were looking at him.

The men still stared at him, never loosening their grips on their weapons, when a few minutes later a dark-skinned man, wearing an impractical long black coat, swept into the room, stopping short when he saw the Soldier sitting in the middle of the floor.

He stared at the Soldier for several beats with his single eye, and the Soldier glared back, forcing his shaking hands to still.

"I'll be damned," the man finally spoke.

The Soldier raised his eyebrows, feeling weak, but determined not to show it.

The man turned slightly, but wasn't stupid enough to expose his back to the Soldier.

"We just found the Winter Soldier, boys."

It was at that moment that the drugs took over completely and the Soldier keeled over, wondering where he was going to wake up next.

.

.

It was absurd to think that Fury and what was left of SHIELD would be able to bring the Winter Soldier into custody without suffering heavy losses. But that was what had happened, and even Fury, who knew his considerable talents were great could hardly believe it.

It had been months since the fall of SHIELD and the reveal of HYDRA's growing cancer in the midst of it. The Winter Soldier hadn't shown his face throughout it all. He hadn't come up for air as far as anyone could tell, and everyone was looking; Steve and Sam among them. Those two had been looking for him almost since the moment Steve had checked himself out of the hospital, but they hadn't had any luck.

Fury hadn't exactly been looking for the Soldier—he had been trying to dismantle HYDRA across Europe as well as in the States.

He had only been half-successful. Some of the bases had already been abandoned when he got to them, void of any useful information, while others had been operational, ready to be picked clean and then destroyed by Fury.

But some of them had been completely burned when he had arrived, and an unsettled feeling had dogged Fury since the first smoking base they had found. He didn't know who was destroying the bases, and while he applauded the effort, he didn't like the idea of an unknown wandering around picking off HYDRA bases.

But it made sense now.

Of course it was the Winter Soldier. Who else could it have been? Fury admitted privately, that he felt stupid for not having guessed it before.

The Soldier was barely been a threat. He was sitting with his legs in a tangled mess beneath him, in the middle of one of the upper level rooms. The room had once been a sterile white, but wasn't anymore. The walls were painted with the blood of the doctors and assistants, who lay scattered around the Soldier with blood pooling around their still forms.

The Soldier sat among them, dark hair hanging around his gaunt face. He was staring at Fury and his men, but Fury's eyes flicked down to the Soldier's hands, both flesh and metal, which were soaked in blood.

Fury, not one to be easily cowed, felt a shiver ripple down his spine as he stared across the room at the weapon who sat in front of him. He forced a grin on his lips and turned slightly to his men, not giving his back fully to the Soldier, "Well, I'm be damned. We just found the Winter Soldier, boys."

Fury turned back to face the Winter Soldier, noticing that the Soldier's body was trembling, from what, Fury didn't know, but he didn't look like he was in any shape to take on all of Fury's agents, something that Fury was grateful for.

Fury watched in a little bit of awe when the Soldier's eyes grew hazy and then rolled backwards. His body pitched forward in a boneless heap over his legs. He didn't move again, and for a moment, Fury thought he had died. But then he saw the slight movement of breath coming from the body.

Behind Fury, his men shifted, unsure of what they were supposed to do now; he assumed most of them had expected a fight coming, and when faced with the Winter Soldier there was always a good chance that most of them wouldn't have made it out of it alive.

Agent McCall, one of his better agents from SHIELD came up next to him in the doorway, staring at the limp body in front of them.

"Sir?" McCall asked, her voice low and nervous. "What do we do?"

Fury didn't even hesitate with his answer. "We take him."

That was now four days ago.

Fury's men had taken the Soldier's limp body out of the base, leaving it burning behind them. They had loaded him onto a quinjet with metal handcuffs that had been designed for holding Captain America, and flew to Fury's fully loaded base in the mountains of Wyoming.

The Soldier had been stripped of his gear and most of his clothes, leaving him barefoot and shirtless. He was put into a metal and glass cage that was equipped with only a metal cot. Fury didn't answer his agent when she asked who the cage was originally meant for; secrets were like currency to him, and besides, the cage, while in use for the Winter Soldier could still be used for its intended.

A man with more emotions than Fury might have felt sympathy for the Soldier, who lay in a heap on the ground of the cell (he had fallen off the cot almost immediately), his bare back and torso rippling with corded muscle, but also layer upon layer of scars. Most white and old, but some fresh and red. His metal arm was the most grotesque of all; the flesh ripped and jagged where the silver met his body.

But Fury wasn't most men and he felt only the slightest stirring of emotions when he looked at the weapon in the cage.

The first day of his imprisonment, the Soldier had lain, first on the ground, and then on the cot, sweating and shivering. It was clear he was going through some sort of withdrawal, but from what Fury and his agents weren't sure. It was clear that the drug was the only reason he had been so easy to capture back in the HYDRA base, and for a brief moment Fury was almost thankful to the HYDRA agents who had managed to pump the drug into the Soldier's system.

The Soldier weaved in and out of consciousness. He tried clawing at his flesh arm, tearing strips of skin away in bloody lines before moving his attention to the plates of his metal arm where he bloodied his nails trying to remove it.

He hadn't said a word, or made a sound throughout it all. The silence of his suffering was almost overwhelming and Fury knew some of his agents were feeling it more than others. He sent those ones away.

They gassed the chamber to knock him out and then went inside to hook an IV to his arm, making sure that he wasn't going to die from dehydration.

On the second day, the Soldier had lain in his sweat-soaked cot, staring up at the ceiling while the IV gave him the necessary fluids. He was awake and seemed aware for the first time.

Fury had tried talking to him, but it was like the words couldn't reach him through the glass and the Soldier didn't even move.

The third day came and went with an agent changing the IV. The Soldier had blinked sluggishly at him, but hadn't moved.

The fourth day was an explosion of difference. The Soldier had ripped the needle from his arm, ignoring the blood that spurted from it. He had shoved the pole with the half full bag to the corner of the room. Then he had stripped his bed, bundling the sheets and put them in the corner with the pole.

When that was done, he sat down in the middle of the floor, legs crossing in an almost childlike manner, and stared at the wall of glass that surrounded him with sharp eyes.

Fury knew that the Soldier could see through the glass, but he couldn't guess what the Soldier was thinking when he glared at Fury, who stared back with his arms crossed over his chest.

The Soldier didn't look particularly worried about his current situation, but he also didn't look like he was about to snap and go on a killing spree if let out of the cage. That was a good sign, and made the vague plans in the back of Fury's mind sharpen. Not that the Soldier looked like he would even cooperate with Fury if given the chance.

And while Fury hadn't quite hammered out his plans for the Soldier yet, he knew better than to leave a sharpened weapon lying around for just anyone to use. It was better that Fury keep hold of this particular asset. He would, of course, keep the news of the Winter Soldier's caging to himself and the few agents who had helped bring the Soldier in. Fury liked to keep most things close to the chest, and this was something that he especially didn't want people to know about.

If Steve Rogers caught wind of the Soldier's whereabouts, there's no telling what he would do, and Fury couldn't have that.

.

.

"So how long as it been?" Tony said. "It's been a minute, hasn't it?"

Tony's voice grated at Steve's ears and he winced a little, trying to hide his reaction with a casual hand brushing across his mouth.

"It's been at least a few months." Tony paused. "You think you would've given me a call after the whole thing in D.C. Just to let me know you're still alive and all that. Did you know I had to get all that info from Natasha? I could hardly believe that she would bother telling me at all, that woman has more secrets than—"

"Tony," Steve snapped, digging his knuckles against his eyes. He briefly closed them, trying to will away the headache threatening. He knew he was being short with Tony and he couldn't hide the annoyance that was practically seething from him, but it had been a long couple of months and Steve was finally allowing himself to feel discouraged. It was a feeling that had been growing in his chest since the last five failed attempts to find Bucky and the hope of finding his friend was turning to ash in his mouth and it tasted bitter.

He looked up at Tony, whose face was flashing with hurt that he was quickly trying to brush away. Steve felt a flare of guilt; Tony didn't deserve that.

Tony leaned back into his overly plush couch, crossing his legs and stretching an arm over the top of the couch in an attempt to look like he didn't care what Steve said.

"All I'm saying is that it's been a while," Tony said.

"I've been busy," Steve offered half-heartedly, trying to settle more comfortably in his own chair.

"Yeah, I know," Tony said, eyeing Sam, who had just entered the living room, looking refreshed and cleaner than the last time Steve had seen him. "I see you're busy making new friends."

"That's Sam," Steve said, frowning slightly. "I already introduced him."

"I'm Sam. We've met," Sam added, lips twitching a little as he took a seat next to Steve. "Thanks for the shower." He jerked his chin in the general direction of the bathroom.

"You're welcome," Tony said with a shrug. "I have lots of bathrooms here, so it's not a problem." He paused. "Can I just ask, what happened to the two of you that got you so dirty?" He gave Steve a pointed look, eyes raking up and down Steve's dusty clothes and grimy face. "And is that blood I see splattered on your neck?"

Steve's hand automatically went up to his neck, wincing as he felt the stiff, flaky leftover blood that he hadn't managed to wipe off.

"It's complicated, Steve finally said, rubbing a hand at his face, probably smearing the dirt worse.

Tony made a humming sound, wincing at Steve's face; the dirt definitely smeared. His eyes flicked back up to Steve's.

"Here's the thing," Tony said, "I know that it's not. Complicated, that is."

Steve felt his eyebrows draw down and his hands stilled their attempts at cleaning his face and he felt his annoyance rising once again. "What?"

Next to him, Sam tensed, and Steve felt a rush of gratitude towards the other man; Sam had barely known him when he offered Steve his services, and the months they had spent together had drawn them closer together. Steve had grown to rely on Sam, and Sam on Steve.

And here Sam was, once again, ready to follow Steve's lead in whatever he decided, even if that meant kicking Tony Stark's ass.

"Don't give me that, Cap," Tony said, waving a hand. He leaned forward, propping his elbows onto his knees. "It's like you think that I couldn't find the little secret you've been keeping from everyone."

Steve tensed, exchanging a quick look with Sam. Sam hadn't been with Steve when Zola had revealed just who had killed Howard and Maria Stark, but Steve had told him the basics. If Tony had found out there was no telling what he was going to do. Steve had wanted to be the one to tell him, and now—

"I know that you're looking for you long lost pal. Good ol' Bucky Barnes," Tony continued, not noticing when Steve let out a thin breath of relieved air; Tony didn't know. With that crisis not yet present, Steve focused on what Tony was saying again.

"I also know that Barnes was in HYDRA's hands for decades, for about as long as you were asleep in the ice, Steve." The jab was intentional, and Steve winced. "They spent years working on him, and now he's nothing more than HYDRA's pet—"

"Don't," Steve warned, hands tightening into fists on the chair's arms. Tony stared blandly back.

"He probably isn't the same man you knew. Actually, scratch that. We know he's not the same man. That was fairly easy to figure out after he tried to kill you on that helicarrier. I'm not sure what you're expecting to find when you do actually manage to get your hands on him. It's been a long time, and HYDRA's been digging their fingers around in his head for longer than the two of you have been friends—"

" _Stop_." Steve's voice was steel, and Tony's mouth shut with a snap, his eyes shuttering.

The two of them stared at each other, but this time Steve didn't regret his harshness. Tony had been looking to get a rise out of him and he had succeeded, but to what end Steve wasn't sure.

"Sorry, Cap," Tony said, voice even. "I know you don't want to hear this."

"You're right. I don't," Steve said, getting up and circling around his chair.

"But you need to," Tony said, raising his voice. Steve stopped, eyeing Tony. "You keep going after him and he will kill you. I'm not fucking around here, Steve." Tony stood up too. They glared at each other.

"Tony..." Steve started.

"Let me repeat that," Tony cut in, voice slowing. "You go after the Winter Soldier and he will finish what he started in D.C."

"No." Steve shook his head. "No, he won't."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I know him."

"No, you _knew_ him," Tony snapped, jabbing a finger at Steve. "Just because he couldn't finish the job, doesn't mean that he won't take another crack at it." Tony dropped his voice, chin ducking to his chest briefly. "I don't want to see you get hurt, Steve. If you're not careful, you'll die going after him."

Steve took a breath, letting it fill his lungs and wash away the anger at Tony's words. He sighed, posture relaxing as he raking a hand through his hair.

"I'm not going to die, Tony."

Tony held his gaze for a long moment. "I sure hope not." He paused. "At the rate you're going, it's not going to be long before you find him. Or he finds you."

.

.

A/N: First! I'm super nervous to be posting this because I don't have the whole story planned out yet (tho I have some of the basics floating around in my head) and because I haven't written long fics in like two years and I'm not sure I have the stamina for this anymore. So hey leave me some nice and encouraging reviews please?

Second! This is vaguely connected to a one shot I wrote about Hawkeye right after the Winter Soldier movie came out. That fic is called What Happened to Barton, and yes, that means Clint is going to be featured in this story (I've missed writing that boy).

Third! So like I said, I'm all nervous about this, but I'm also really excited to share this with you all. I've had parts of this story written for almost a year, but never felt like I had a grasp on the plot until I randomly decided that I was going to finish it like a week ago. Actually, it was because I've been insanely busy with stupid adult life and also needed a major break from writing my original novels.

I'm rambling now, so I'll just leave it there.

Enjoy!


	2. Chapter 2

[2]

Clint Barton was running on fumes. He had been for the past three months.

He tried not to blame Natasha for it, but it was hard not to kinda, sorta blame his partner for putting all of SHIELD's secrets online for the entire world to see. Okay, yeah, he knew that it had been done because they needed to expose HYDRA too, but c'mon.

All of Clint's aliases were burned, and quite a few people who thought he was dead now knew he wasn't, so that sucked. But that seemed to be the least of his worries.

He had been stuck in Nevada, with his handler, Weston, when SHIELD fell; and then Weston had tried to kill him. And yeah, that felt bad too, but whatever, Clint hadn't clicked with a handler since Coulson, and Weston had been no exception.

Obviously, Clint had gotten away from Weston, leaving him in a totaled car somewhere in Nevada; Clint hadn't wanted to kill an unconscious man, but that meant Weston was now on the list of people who probably wanted him dead. It was a long list, so Clint wasn't too concerned.

He had been supposed to meet Natasha somewhere after calling her from a little diner in Nevada, but that hadn't happened after all because two days after that, Fury had called Clint.

Clint would've decked the guy for pretending to be dead if he wasn't hundreds of miles away.

As it was, Fury was calling him for his help, and Clint, figuring he had nothing better to do, agreed (that wasn't the only reason, but Clint was trying to pretend the real reason wasn't actually there, just out of reach).

Since that moment, Fury had been sending him on his own missions, sometimes with Maria Hill tagging along, but a lot of the time, he was on his own, which he didn't mind so much, but he did miss some human company. His missions were fairly straightforward: seek out SHIELD agents that had been left out in the cold when SHIELD fell, determine if they were friendly (and not HYDRA), and then set them up somewhere safe until Fury was ready for them.

Clint was currently (still) in the desert, trying to find Agent Matthews, who had been somewhere in Utah doing who knows what for the past three months.

Clint was sitting in an outside booth at a restaurant of some kind with the scorching sun beating down on him. His baseball hat and sunglasses didn't look out of place in Moab; the town was filled with tourists of all shapes and sizes, most of them there for hiking or off-roading. Clint tried not to be jealous of all these lucky people, who had seen the fall of SHIELD and just...gone on with their lives.

"Barton," Maria's voice buzzed in his ear. "Do you have eyes on her?"

Clint heaved a sigh, shaking his head in the direction of where he knew Maria was camped out (in some hotel room with a good vantage of the restaurant).

"You know that your info might be garbage," Maria continued. "Matthews might not even be here in Moab. Hell, she might not even be in Utah."

The noise from the tourists surrounding him faded into the background, but Clint keep his senses aware of what was happening around him, even while he felt annoyance rise up in his chest from Maria's comment.

Clint's eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses. He cleared his throat, and put a finger up to his ear where his comm was shoved into his ear. "You know Maria, I could just as easily do this job without you."

There was a huff of air from her. "Not likely."

"Oh no, very likely. I traced and completed at least half of these missions on my own while Fury was having you do something else."

Maria didn't say anything, just like Clint knew she would; she didn't like to talk about what else Fury was having her do, and she obviously felt like these missions with Clint were a waste of her talents.

They felt like a waste of Clint's too.

"You know there's a reason Fury is having me do this," Clint continued. "I mean, yes, I know that I'm one of the better liked agents at SHIELD—"

There was a snort from Maria.

"—and these agents are scared and want to see my friendly face again, but, really, Fury knows that my talents are far beyond doing this. Right?" Clint immediately regretted adding the question; Maria would eat him alive the minute he showed any weakness.

"You know why you have to do this," Maria said after a slight pause. "There's no one else to do it, and Fury trusts you. More than you know, Barton."

That...that was unexpected. Clint didn't think Maria had a sympathetic bone in her body, but clearly he was wrong.

Clint cleared his throat, getting ready to say something, maybe to make peace, but he didn't get the chance.

"Eyes up!" Maria snapped. "Red hat, 12 o'clock."

Clint's eyes snapped up directly in front of him, scanning the crowd of people that flowed around him. The red hat stuck out in the bright sun, bobbing through the crowd, going away from Clint.

Clint pushed off from the corner booth, tugging at his worn blue hat and setting off after Matthews.

"Careful, Barton," Maria said, "we don't know whether or not she's HYDRA or SHIELD."

"Yeah, yeah," Clint muttered, eyes glued to the agent's back. He gained ground on her easily. He usually masked his presence so that other people, who were trained like he was, couldn't sense him following them, but he wanted her to know that she had a tail, and he made his presence large.

He could see the moment when she realized that someone was following her. Her back stiffened for a brief second, but she didn't show any other reaction that she had noticed him. She was pretty good, Clint thought.

She suddenly turned, disappearing down an alleyway, dodging cars that honked obnoxiously at her. Clint immediately followed, picking up his pace as she started to run.

She was fast, but Clint was faster, and he was a crack shot which came in handy sometimes. Like right now.

Clint shoved his hand down to where he had holstered his pistol, loaded with rubber bullets. Maria had laughed in his face when she saw him loading the gun, making some comment about how the deadliest aim in the business had no right to be using non-lethal force. Or something like that, Clint hadn't really been listening.

They were leaving the crowds behind them, and were now in a shaded street between two tan colored buildings. There was no one else around, and it was just the two of them in the alleyway.

"Matthews!" Clint called, pulling his gun out as he ran. "Hold up!"

She didn't bother answering his call, but she did jerk her head around to look at him, which slowed her down a little. Her eyes widened at the sight of the weapon, and Clint could see that she was about to put another burst of energy into her pumping legs.

Clint stopped suddenly, drawing the gun up and aiming. She was just at the edge of the alley, ready to make a left or right turn. Clint squeezed the trigger in two rapid secessions.

The rubber bullets hit her in the back and against the back of one of her knees, causing her to yelp and stumble. Clint knew from experience that being shot with rubber bullets was no picnic and hurt like a bitch, but hey, at least she wasn't bleeding out from real bullets.

With the speed she was going, Matthews pitched forward, hitting the road heavily. Her red hat fell off in the process, skittering away.

Clint easily gained on her, gun still gripped in one hand, while he stood over her.

She was huffing in pain and was still on her stomach from where she had fallen. With a groan, she rolled over onto her back, staring up at Clint with tears in her eyes.

"Barton," she said through clenched teeth.

"Matthews."

"I never took you for one to shoot an unarmed person in the back."

Clint shrugged. "Had to take you down somehow. Figured you'd rather be alive than dead with a real bullet lodged in your back."

She pushed herself into a sitting position, wheezing out a laugh. "Yeah. You thought right."

Clint took a careful step back, mindful of her legs and hands.

"So," Clint said, "which one are you? SHIELD or HYDRA?"

"Neither exist anymore, so does it matter?"

"That's where you're wrong, buckaroo," Clint said and then winced, immediately regretting his choice of words; he hadn't been around a lot of people lately, and Maria didn't count.

Matthews' eyebrows rose. "Buckaroo?"

Clint waved a hand. "Yeah, I regretted that as soon as it came out of my mouth."

"You should regret it."

"This people thing is hard sometimes."

"Yeah, I bet. That's why they keep you in the back, huh?"

"I'll have you know that Fury is sending me out here to the front these days."

Silence fell over them.

Matthews pushed herself to her feet. "Fury? I heard he was dead."

Clint snorted. "You really think Fury would die before he was ready?"

"No, but I heard they sent the Winter Soldier after him. No one survives that."

"Fury did."

"Clearly."

Another pause.

"So, which is it?" Clint asked again. "HYDRA or SHIELD?"

"You do realize I could just say SHIELD and then stab you in the back?"

"C'mon, Matthews, you wouldn't do that to your friend?"

"We were never friends."

"We used to eat lunch together!"

"No, you used to eat lunch at my table until your food stealing ways sent all _my_ friends running."

"Hmm, that explains some things."

"No kidding."

"Barton," Maria buzzed in his ear. "Where the hell are you? I don't have eyes on you."

"Hill," Clint said, putting a hand up to his ear. "I've got Matthews—"

Matthews' mouth pulled back into a snarl and she sprang forward, a knife flashing in her hand.

" _Shit—fuck_ ," Clint bit out, jerking away from Matthews. He could vaguely hear Maria shouting in his ear, but he was too busy trying not to get slashed with the knife in the very skilled hands of Matthews.

He fired his gun at her, and the rubber bullet hit her shoulder. She let out a cry, but it didn't stop her from coming at him.

He slammed up against the side of the tan building, back hitting the rough stones hard enough to leave a mark.

There was a brief struggle for the gun that sent the weapon flying away down the street.

The knife jerked between them as they both fought for control over it.

Matthews was skilled, but Clint was stronger and it was clear that he was going to gain the knife in seconds.

Matthews glared at him, teeth grinding together. She abruptly loosened her fingers on the knife, letting it slip out of her grip. The knife fell down between them, but before Clint could even think about catching it, her other free hand had plucked it from the air.

The next moment, she had embedded the knife into his gut.

Clint let out a hiss of air, and before she could twisted the handle, he head-butted her and then kicked her in the stomach with a heavy boot.

She staggered away, ripping the knife out as she did so.

Clint ignored the flare of pain radiating from his stomach and kept his focus on the woman in front of him.

For a moment, they stared at each other, chests heaving.

"HYDRA then, eh?" Clint said.

Matthews shot him a disgusted look; probably because she wasn't used to the any sort of quips during a fight, but Clint could forgive her for that.

But he couldn't forgive her for stabbing him _and_ for being a HYDRA agent.

He sprang forward, kicking a foot out to knock the knife out of her hand. She cried out in pain, and started to grab at the knife again, but Clint didn't give her a chance.

He heaved her towards him, pulling her into a bear hug. She fought against him, but he was larger than she was.

He twisted her body around so her back was against his chest, and then got his hands on her neck.

Her fingers dug into his arms in a panic, drawing blood.

A quick jerk later and she went limp in his arms.

Clint let her fall out of his arms, breathing heavily as he looked down at her.

Her glassy eyes stared up at him, head at an odd angle from her snapped neck.

"Barton!" There was a pounding of boots against the cement and then a moment later, Maria skidded to a stop next to him and the body. She gave him a critical once over, noting his bleeding side.

And, as if on cue, the knife wound flared and Clint winced, clamping a hand down against the pulsing cut.

Warm blood oozed between his fingers and soaked into his shirt, but Clint knew from experience that this wouldn't kill him. It just hurt a bit, but once he got it stitched up, he'd be good as new.

So he was a little concerned when he started swaying; he shouldn't have lost that much blood in such a short amount of time.

"Barton!"

Clint blinked and realized he was lying on his back and Maria was kneeling next to him with panic in her eyes.

"I think that girl gutted me, Hill," Clint said. Or tried to. It came out a bit slurred.

"Shitshit," Maria said, shoving his hands away from the bleeding wound. He couldn't really see what she was doing, but the pain had started to fade into a numbed haze.

"Gutted me like a fish," he said to no one in particular, staring up at the blue sky between the two buildings.

"Don't be ridiculous," Maria snarled at him with her typical bedside manner. "She poisoned you, dumbass."

Oh. That made sense.

"Right," Clint said. "Well, you take care of that. I'm going to go to sleep."

"You little shit! Stay awake!" Maria's voice was fading. "You're supposed to be one of our top agents...a little poison and you're dead? Some agent you are."

Clint wanted to point out that that was an unfair statement and that HYDRA had perfected the art of poison, which probably worked in a whole different way than he knew, and if this was a typical poison he would know what to do...which meant that Maria probably didn't know what to do and he was probably going to die.

Well, fuck.

Clint didn't get to say any of that because, despite Maria's continued verbal abuse, his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he lost hold of his awareness.

.

.

Being stuck in the cage gave him a lot of time to think. More time than he would have liked. The past few months had been one of his self-assigned missions after the next; not much time for anything else.

When he was destroying the bits of HYDRA he could reach, he would slip into the skin of the Soldier (not the Asset. That was too close to what he was when he was under HYDRA's thumb) and wreck the HYDRA compounds with a fierce pleasure that felt right. That felt _good_.

But when that was complete, he would revert back to...nothing.

He didn't know who he was when he wasn't killing people, or running missions.

 _James._ The name came unbidden, echoing in his head softly in a woman's voice.

James. He mouthed it silently, trying out the shape of it on his tongue and mouth.

" _Aw, ma,"_ a new, young voice sounded in his head, _"I toldja, it's Bucky. Steve calls me Bucky."_

" _Well, I'm your mother and your name is James, so that's what I'm calling you."_

The words of a past he couldn't remember faded away, sliding through his hands like sand. He blinked roughly and swallowed back whatever emotions his body was demanding he feel.

The vague memory wasn't exactly helpful; it seemed he had lots of names even back when he was a full person.

But there was something about it that spread warmth throughout his limbs.

The name James felt stiff to him, and not quite right, even with the memory of his mother calling him that (he couldn't remember his mother, but that was a thought for another, more stable version of himself).

But...Bucky. There was something about that name that he kept circling around to in his mind.

The answer came a moment later.

 _Steve._

Steve Rogers. The man on the helicarrier had called him Bucky, and when he thought back to that, he could only remember the fear and anger coursing through him during those moments, but now, all he could think about was how the name felt _right_.

So, a moment later, the name Bucky settled onto him, soaking into his skin and spreading throughout his body. His back sagged over his crossed legs and his weight settled more firmly on the cot. It was a relief to finally accept one of his names fully (maybe not fully...he still didn't know who he was).

Bucky—the name felt odd, silly eve, but he felt a thrill too—knew he was being watched; they hadn't truly left him alone once since they had brought him here.

He could feel the eyes on him, trying to see past his blank face and curtain of dark hair. He didn't know what they saw or what they were even looking for, but whatever it was, he didn't want to give it to them.

"Soldier." The voice was jarring after the silence that had enveloped Bucky for so long; he didn't know how long he had been here.

Bucky opened his eyes, straightening his back from its hunched position over his crossed legs.

The man with the eyepatch (Fury?) stepped out of the corner of the room. He strode forward until he was standing near the glass cage. The glow of the lights from Bucky's cage fell onto his face, giving his skin a faintly blue color.

"Barnes," Fury tried again, mouth twisting over the name. "Do you remember me?"

Bucky didn't bother with a reply. He only knew this man from the HYDRA base, but he could see that Fury didn't mean that.

"My name is Nicholas Fury. I was the Director of SHIELD until you tried to kill me."

Bucky blinked. That explained the look on the man's face. Bucky imagined most people got a little angry when someone tried to kill them. Not him, of course. He would be impressed with anyone who eventually managed it. He had found he was very resilient and hard to kill.

"I suppose you want to know why you're here," Fury said. "The truth is, I hadn't planned on you. I fully expected you to fuck off somewhere and not come up for air, or I thought HYDRA might have gotten its hands back on you—"

Bucky felt a rough shiver travel up his spine, but the Soldier in him forced him to stay still.

"—and if that was the case, I doubt HYDRA would have put you back in a box for a good ten or twenty years. Not while Steve Rogers is looking for you."

Steve was looking for him? Of course he was. There was no question that Steve would tear HYDRA to its studs to find him. Bucky felt a swell of warmth ripple through him, but it was quickly chased away with doubt; did he really want Steve to find him? He was only half a man these days. He was broken beyond repair and he doubted even Steve and all his words of the past could fix him.

"Frankly," Fury continued, "it would have been easier for everyone if one of those two options had happened. But here you are."

Fury eyed him from outside the cage. "Honestly, Barnes, I don't know what to do with you. I don't know what use you can be if I don't trust you, and believe me, I _don't_ trust you. But," he stressed the word, "I don't let valuable assets go to waste either."

Bucky felt his breath freeze in his lungs as he stared through the glass at the man.

Fury stared back at him as if he could bend Bucky to his will with his single eye and imposing stance. Bucky knew better. It took a lot more than just a look and a few words to make him compliant.

His hands tightened into fists on his lap, his metal hand grinding loudly in the cage.

Fury looked almost amused.

Bucky was sure their conversation was meant to continue, but one of the double doors snapped open, shifting Bucky and Fury's attention to the man scurrying across the room.

They silently watched his progress until he was standing next to Fury.

Bucky could see the sweat shining on the small man's face and the frantic jitter of his limbs as he slowed to a stop. Bucky didn't have to think very hard about how to kill that man; it would be easy. A quick squeeze of his metal hand around that fragile neck and the man would be dead, and if that wasn't an option, he could break his back—a little harder, but still an option.

Bucky frowned at the thought and shook his head; he didn't need to kill everyone to get out of the cage, least of all, small mousy men that probably worked with computers and not people.

"Yes?" Fury said in a tone that conveyed his displeasure at being interrupted.

The other man winced and cleared his throat.

"It's Agent Barton, sir, he's been hurt."

Fury stiffened, and Bucky was intrigued to see actual concern flash across the man's face before it went completely blank again.

"What?"

"Agent Matthews was HYDRA. Stabbed him in the gut with a poisoned knife—"

"Not here," Fury snapped, jerking his chin at Bucky.

The small man startled as if he had somehow forgotten that they had a dangerous, brainwashed HYDRA soldier sitting in their cell.

Bucky gave him a toothy grin, and thought about waving, but that felt like a bit much.

The man paled, staring at Bucky with ill-concealed fear.

"Bring me to Barton," Fury said, bringing the man's attention back to him. He started striding away without another word to Bucky.

The small man gave Bucky another look and then hurried after Fury. Their voices dropped and then disappeared as they exited the room.

Bucky watched the closed doors, but knew they weren't coming back anytime soon. He leaned back against the wall of his cage, feeling the cool glass seep into his thin shirt. He crossed his arms over his chest and tipped his head back.

Fury's intentions were murky, but it was clear that he wasn't going to just let Bucky leave. Fury would want to use him if he could, and if he couldn't...well, Bucky imagined that he didn't want to know what happened if that was the case.

Fury was a lot more like HYDRA than he liked to think. At least, that was Bucky's immediate impression of the man.

But, unlike HYDRA, Fury had weaknesses. The mentioned Agent Barton was one of them.

Bucky filed that away in the back of his mind, hoping that it wouldn't get lost in the slowly unspooling memories that were already crowding his head.

Bucky heaved a breath, purposely ignoring the slight panic crawling along the edges of his fingers at the idea of another organization attempting to use him for the skills he possessed.

.

.

Steve felt more like himself, and less like the dirt covered soldier that had stomped into the Tower days ago. Regular showers and food would do that for a person.

He was in one of the many kitchens in the Tower, making himself a snack of sorts. Although, for Steve, a snack consisted of multiple sandwiches. It was silent in this part of the Tower; he wasn't sure where Sam or Tony was, and he knew that most of the actual business took place on the first couple of floors, giving the Avengers, when they were in residence, privacy.

Steve had guilt crawling along his now clean skin. He wished he hadn't snapped at Tony when he had first arrived, even more so, now that he as staying at the Tower. It felt wrong to accept Tony's help while arguing with him, but Tony had always offered the team a place to stay, no questions asked, so Steve and Sam stayed for the time being.

For now, anyway.

"So." Tony appeared in the main kitchen as if summoned by Steve's gloomy thoughts.

Steve looked up from the making of several sandwiches on the granite countertop. Tony was in the doorway of the kitchen, lingering as if he was waiting for Steve to invite him in. He was wearing casual clothes instead of the suit and tie that Steve had gotten used to. He had probably been in the basement, working on another Iron Man suit, or maybe something different; Steve didn't really know what Tony was currently working on. He had been out of the loop for a while now.

"Tony," Steve greeted, slapping some ham onto a slice of bread. "Hungry?" He held up a half made sandwich.

Tony eyed the sandwiches from across the room, mouth curling. "Uh, no thanks."

Steve shrugged and continued putting his food together. There was a heavy silence and when Steve looked up again, Tony was still hesitating at the entrance.

"Tony," Steve said, pausing in his work, "what are you doing? You coming in or...?"

Tony seemed to mentally shake himself and he slid his hands into his pant pockets, taking several steps into the kitchen. He glanced at the dining room that was connected to the kitchen as if he expected Sam to be sitting there, waiting for a sandwich.

"Sam's in the weight room, I think," Steve offered, following Tony's look. "He's enjoying himself here. I think he's more excited that he's actually met Iron Man, more than anything else," he added with a grin.

"Good, good," Tony said, absently flicking some dust off the tabletop.

Steve's hands stilled, and he eyed Tony, waiting for his friend to say something; there was obviously something on Tony's mind, and he wouldn't talk about it until he was ready.

"Tony?" Steve prompted.

"Steve," Tony echoed with a raised eyebrow. He gave Steve his full attention. "Have you heard from Natasha?"

Steve's eyes narrowed briefly; Tony was deflecting.

"No," Steve said, instead of pushing Tony for the truth. "Not lately, but I'm not worried. She can handle herself, even with all of her covers burned."

"What about Clint?" Tony asked, moving from the table to the counter so that he was facing Steve. "Does anyone know if Birdbrain is okay since SHIELD fell?"

Steve felt a flare of guilt again. He hadn't thought about Clint in months. Natasha had mentioned in passing, before she had left D.C., that she had called him and was going to meet up somewhere. But that aside, Steve hadn't really thought about Clint. Clint might have been one of the lucky SHIELD agents, and hadn't been on mission when it fell, but Steve doubted that. Clint was too good at what he did to be sitting around eating pizza in an apartment somewhere.

But Natasha hadn't called to tell him that Clint was injured or killed, so that had to count for something.

"I see from your face that you don't know where he is," Tony said after a moment. "Don't feel too bad, I only just thought about him too. That guy spent way too much time hiding when he was at the Tower for me to even get to know him all that much, and then, when his mandatory leave was over, he disappeared."

Steve hated to admit that he didn't know Clint Barton all that well either. He trusted him—he had to, the missions they went on as the Avengers were too important to not trust each other.

They stared at each other, different levels of guilt reflecting across their faces.

"Maybe we should give him a call," Tony said after a moment. He started to draw out a phone.

"On what phone?" Steve said, slowing Tony's progress. "I've never been given a number. Does he even own a phone?"

"Who doesn't own a phone?" They both thought about that for a minute, thinking about how strange Clint was with technology sometimes. Neither of them knew much, but with the little Natasha had said, it had been widely assumed among the team that Clint was something of a conspiracy theorist; maybe he didn't like phones. "Whatever," Tony continued a second later. "We should call Natasha and ask her. If anyone knows, it would be her."

Steve nodded; Tony was right about that. Out of all of them, Nat knew Clint the best; they had been teammates for a lot longer than the rest of them. Their bond was strong and easy to see whenever the whole team was together.

Silence fell over them again, while Steve finished his multiple sandwiches.

"So, Tony," Steve said when the quiet stretched for too long. "What is that you want to talk about? I know it's not just about Clint or Sam."

Tony cleared his throat. "Well, I guess I'm just curious to know how long you and Sam are planning on staying here—"

"If you want us to leave—"

"No, Steve, that's not what I meant," Tony cut in. "I'm wondering how long it's going to be before you head out again to look for your long lost pal who definitely still wants to kill you."

"He doesn't want to kill me," Steve said, eyebrows pulling down. "Bucky pulled me from the river after I fell out of the hellicarrier. Besides, if he wanted to complete his mission, like you seem to think, then he would have done it already. When he missed Fury in the car in D.C., he came after him with a sniper rifle hours later."

Steve mentally winced; his Fury example wasn't very strong for his case.

Tony was shaking his head, frown appearing on his face. "Do you hear yourself? Your friend almost killed Fury!"

"He didn't know what he was doing!"

"That doesn't make it better, Steve. He's either under HYDRA's influence and killing people we know, or, at best, his mind is so broken that he can't function anymore."

Steve didn't realize he had moved around the counter and was treading towards Tony until Tony jerked away from him and held his hands up. Steve stopped, a couple of feet away.

"You better—" Steve cut himself off with a snap of his teeth. He shut his eyes for a quick moment and took a breath. When he opened his eyes again, Tony had dropped his hands to his sides, but there was still a hint of a fight glinting in his eyes.

"Tony, I can't give up on him," Steve's voice softened and he couldn't help the emotion that was laced through his words. "He's my friend."

" _I'm_ your friend," Tony said. "And, from what I understand about the whole friendship thing, you don't let your friends go off on missions that mean certain death."

Steve was vaguely touched that Tony clearly cared about his well-being, but the idea of leaving Bucky in HYDRA's hands was enough to bring Steve's anger back to the surface.

"Tony, I'm not—"

"How about I go with you," Tony said, interrupting.

Steve blinked not expecting that. "You want to go with me on a mission of certain death?"

Tony's shot him a glare. "When did you get a sense of humor?"

"It comes and goes," Steve said with a shrug.

"Well, yes, I would go with you on a mission of certain death." Tony paused. "You need more than just Sam the Birdman to watch your back. It's not just your pal I'm worried about. HYDRA is still out there, and I'm thinking that killing Captain America would do wonders for their morale, not to mention I doubt they're willing to let their Soldier go without a fight."

Steve eyed Tony, who shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

"It means a lot, Tony," Steve said, "that you'd be willing to come with me, but I don't want to see anyone else get hurt for a personal mission—"

"Just accept my help and be done with it," Tony said, cutting him off.

Steve didn't say anything for a beat. "Alright. Thank you, Tony. Really, I mean that."

He took a step forward, hand outstretched.

Tony grasped it with his own, calloused hand.

Steve pushed back the secret of Howard and Maria's deaths into the back of his mind; he would tell Tony soon. He _would_.

Privately, Steve admitted that he was a coward.  
.

.

A/N: Hello, yes, I have no idea what I'm doing. Like, I have a vague plan that will hopefully pull itself together, but right now I'm sorta just floating along doing my best with this. Hands up if anyone is enjoying this!

Also, Bucky is hella hard to write. Like, holy shit. I thought he would be easy, but then I was thinking about what he actually knows at this point and it's not much. Bucky, as the Winter Soldier, doesn't really have much of a personality-and before people get mad at me for saying that, I mean he's not given much of anything. HYDRA is constantly erasing any sort of emotion or memories he gains during his missions, so trying to figure out where he'd be at in his head at this point, is really difficult. Hats off to Sebastian Stan for turning Bucky into my favorite character in the Winter Soldier movie where he had like 5 lines.

ALSO, I've missed writing Clint so much and I'm so glad to be back at it! If you couldn't tell, his little part was so much fun! Hopefully more of that to come.


	3. Chapter 3

[3]

Steve was sitting at the desk in his room. It was dark outside, and from the large windows in his room he could see the city lights.

The room itself was basic, but the desk had been personalized by Tony, or more likely Pepper. Several pages of his sketch book from the war had been framed in glass, while his compass with Peggy's photo on the inside was propped open inside a small glass box.

Just looking at the items made Steve feel a deep pang of regret in his stomach for a time that had slipped out of his reach.

He missed his life, but he would never regret taking that plane down into the ice, but it seemed that even that had been for nothing; HYDRA may not be as strong anymore, but they were alive and growing. Zola's words from the computer lab echoed in his head, making him wince.

Steve briefly let his head fall into his waiting palms, blocking out the lights of New York.

He had thought he had been hiding it fairly well, but waking up in a different century and being thrust back into a military service had been hard. He didn't blame Fury for asking him to join the Avengers or SHIELD, but he felt like he had been at war for too long.

If he had been given the choice, Steve wouldn't have left SHIELD. The military setup had felt familiar in ways that the rest of the world didn't. And he would never abandon the friends he had made when New York was attacked.

In a way, he had felt like he had nothing else to live for. He was a man out of time with nothing to offer the world but his talents as the only super soldier created.

But now...now, Steve had something he hadn't before. Something that he thought he had left behind in a different time when he crashed that plane into an icy death.

 _Hope_.

Somewhere out there, Bucky was alive.

Even back in his time, Steve hadn't dared to think that Bucky had survived the fall. A mistake that he wouldn't be repeating.

Maybe he wasn't alone in this new world after all.

His cellphone rang, jarring him out of his thoughts.

Steve glanced at it as it buzzed on the surface of the desk. He didn't recognize the number, but Steve was expecting a call.

He plucked it up and pressed it to his ear.

"Yes?"

" _Steve,"_ Natasha greeted him on the other side.

"Nat, how are you?"

" _Tired, and wet, but that's not important. You wanted to talk to me?"_

Steve had left her a message on one of her many burner phones, just the way she had told him to do when she had first left, indicating that he needed to speak to her.

"Yeah," Steve said, leaning back against the wooden chair at the desk. "Sam and I are at the Tower with Tony." He paused. "We haven't found Bucky yet."

" _It's not going to be easy, Steve_ ," Natasha said, sympathy glimmering in her words. _"Whether or not your friend remembers who he is, he's been trained and brainwashed by HYDRA and is the most skilled assassin I've ever seen. There's a reason that he's known as a ghost story. Most people didn't believe he existed. He's not going to just pop up because you want to talk to him."_

Steve let his head hang, knowing Natasha couldn't see it. "I know."

There was a slight pause on Natasha's end. _"But that doesn't mean you stop looking. He's your friend, Steve, and if HYDRA doesn't have him, he'll start to remember."_

"How could you know that?"

" _Because I remembered."_

Steve let that sink into him, and decided to not ask what that meant; there were parts of Natasha's past that he knew she wanted to stay buried and he would respect her wishes. He cleared his throat.

"I'm actually calling about Clint."

" _Clint?"_ Surprise colored Natasha's voice. _"What about him?"_

"I want to make sure he's okay. He wasn't with us when SHIELD fell."

" _It's been three months, Steve."_ The accusation was clear in her voice.

"I know. I've had a lot on my mind," Steve said, but he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Natasha let him stew for a long moment and then said, _"We were supposed to meet up. He had been on a mission in the States when SHIELD fell, and then his handler tried to kill him."_

Steve blinked away his surprise, and tried not to let his building guilt overwhelm him; he already had enough of it.

"Is he...?"

" _He's okay,"_ Natasha said. _"He's Clint. He took care of it. Well, from his mumbled explanation I don't think he killed the guy—he said it was a matter of honor, whatever that means—so I would imagine that Weston is going to be going after him."_

"I'm glad he's okay, Nat," Steve said. "You know that I care about the whole team, I've just been—"

" _I know, Steve,"_ Natasha said, letting him off the hook a little. _"Clint has always blended into the background. He's not easy to get to know."_

"Where is he now? Tony always has rooms here if he needs a place to stay."

" _He's got an apartment in New York,"_ Natasha said. _"But he's not there right now. He's working with Fury."_

Steve wasn't sure what to make of that. He knew that Fury was still out there, probably rebuilding SHIELD in the shadows once again, and with the right people this time. But he still didn't trust the guy. He carried around too many secrets like they were weapons, keeping them close to his chest until they suited him to reveal them.

"That's good, right?" Steve said. "He's doing okay with Fury?"

" _I don't know,"_ Natasha said. _"He hasn't called in a while."_

Steve frowned.

"Is that a bad thing?"

Natasha was silent for a beat. _"Not necessarily."_

"You don't sound very convinced."

" _This is Clint we're talking about. He does his own thing,"_ Natasha said. _"But, I'll check in with him and get back to you."_

"Thanks, Nat," Steve said, relieved.

" _Of course, Cap."_

Steve, thinking she was finished, got ready to say goodbye when she stopped him with a small sound.

" _One more thing, Cap, now that I have you on the phone."_

Steve's hand stilled. "Yeah?"

" _I'm hearing rumors,"_ she said carefully, _"of more Winter Soldiers."_

Steve froze. His breath inched out of him in a soft whistle. "What's that supposed to mean?"

" _It means that Bucky might not have been the only Soldier HYDRA trained. It means, that they might have found a way to make a normal person faster, stronger, smarter—just like you, Cap."_

Steve's frown deepened, and he wanted to ask what that meant, but he kept his mouth shut.

" _We never talked about it, but I think it's pretty clear that something happened to your friend, and I mean more than just being captured and brainwashed."_

Steve's hand tightened around his phone. He knew that Natasha hid her true feelings behind quips and flippant remarks, and while her callous sentence hurt to hear, he knew she didn't mean them to.

" _You never talk about Bucky or what happened during World War II,"_ Natasha continued. _"I know that he was captured by HYDRA and Zola."_ She paused. _"Is it possible they did something to him? In an attempt to replicate the serum you were given?"_

Steve's mouth twisted, but he answered her. "Yes."

Natasha made a humming sound in the back of her throat. _"Well. That might explain some things, but we're getting a little off-topic. I'm hearing rumors of other Winter Soldiers, and I want you to watch your back."_

"Me? What about Bucky? If there are others, then maybe he's not as special as we seem to think. What if they decide he's more trouble than he's worth and they just kill him?" Steve snapped, and then reigned in his anger.

" _He's the first,"_ Natasha said simply. _"He's important, Steve."_

Steve glared out into the skyline, grateful that Bucky was the first and sick to his stomach at the thought of it.

" _Be careful out there, Steve,"_ Natasha said quietly.

"You too," Steve said.

A moment later she hung up and Steve was met with a dial tone.

It sounded like a warning, but maybe Steve was just being dramatic.

But he didn't think so.

.

.

Clint woke up, which was surprising. He was pretty sure that he had died back in that alley in Utah.

His side was numb and not on fire like it had been when he had been stabbed. He figured that meant he was flying pretty high on some good drugs. Which he was okay with.

"Clint?"

The voice was low, and definitely not Maria's.

Clint tried to open his eyes, but they were glued shut with grit and salt from the tears of pain that had streamed from his eyes when Matthews had stabbed him.

"Y'mph?" Clint said. He frowned, even with his eyes closed, he knew that he hadn't made the best first impression with his slurred word.

"Barton?"

Clint peeled his eyes open, blinking rapidly against the swimming lights overhead. He could tell from the smell and the whiteness of his surroundings that he was in a hospital room. That was another good sign.

He swallowed roughly, throat dry. He reached a hand up, feeling a slight tug from where a needle was placed into the top of his hand. He pressed his hand to his throat as he looked to where the voice was coming from.

Fury sat at one of the only chairs in the small room. He was a stark difference to the white of the room, sitting comfortably in the chair with his black coat and clothes. He looked exactly the same since the last time Clint had seen him, more than six months ago, before the fall of SHIELD.

"You look good," Clint said, finding his voice. Albeit, a rough and low voice.

Fury's eyebrow rose. "I look good?" he repeated.

Clint settled deeper into his pillows, nodding. "Yeah. You look good for a dead guy."

Fury's lips twitched into a smile that flashed and then disappeared seconds later.

"I could say the same," Fury said, eyeing Clint, "but you don't look good."

Clint frowned. "Hey."

"You've been asleep for a few days, working through the poison. You're lucky to be alive, Barton."

"Yeah. I've heard that before," Clint said, rolling his eyes. "Do you remember Alvin from Medical back in D.C.? He always said that to me when I would stumble in after a mission. There was one time that I fell off a four story building and I kid you not—"

"Alvin was HYDRA," Fury cut in.

Clint's mouth shut with a snap and he felt all too sober even with the painkillers flowing through his veins.

"Well fuck," Clint finally said. "I didn't mind that guy so much. He stuck needles into me the least out of all our medical team."

A tight silence fell over them, and Clint tried not to think about everyone he knew who might have been HYDRA and were now either dead or scattered across the globe. He hadn't been close to anyone (except Nat and Coulson), but he could still feel how fractured SHIELD now was.

"So..." Clint said, lolling his head to the side to look at Fury more fully. "I'm glad to be alive, sir, and I can get right back out there if you need me to." He paused. "But, I have a question. Like, you don't have to answer it, but like—" Fucking drugs were messing with him and he sounded like some teen trying to ask a girl out on a date.

Fury with his typical patience said, "Get on with it, Barton."

"I'm just wondering why I wasn't working with you and your team here, wherever here is. No offence, sir, but I'm one of the Avengers, not that it means much at this point, and my talents were being wasted. No offence."

Fury looked almost amused, but it was hard to tell.

"Drop the polite act, Barton. It doesn't suit you."

"Oh. Okay." Clint didn't think he was rude person generally, but maybe he was. Who knew at this point.

"I needed you out in the field on your own. That's all you need to know," Fury said.

Clint felt his eyebrows draw down into a frown. "Bullshit."

Fury matched Clint's look. "Excuse me."

"That might have been an acceptable excuse when SHIELD was actually operational, but it's not. And anyway, besides Hill, I'm the best you've got. You were wasting me, and I want to know why." Clint's blood was rising, and the anger that he worked hard to keep at the low simmer was starting to boil.

Fury shook his head. "No, that's not it. You just want to know why you haven't been part of this from the beginning. Even before SHIELD fell, you've been pushed out of the picture. You said you were an Avenger? Sure. But has anyone from your team tried to get in contact with you? They don't care about you. No one cares about you."

Clint, completely sober now, sat up in his bed, glaring at Fury.

"Fuck you."

"Fine," Fury said with a shrug, "but at least I've actually reached out to you and taken you back in from the cold. At least, you're still part of something with me and what remains of SHIELD."

Clint's mouth worked, but he didn't deny it. No one, besides Nat, had checked in with him, and, yeah, that stung. Fury had put his finger on the pulse of the matter within seconds of Clint waking up, damn him.

"So," Fury said, shifting back into his chair after he had sufficiently put Clint back into his place. "Do you want to know what's going now?"

Clint didn't move for a long moment, but then gave Fury a stiff nod.

"The poison has left your system. You'll feel like shit for another day, but you're going to be okay. The knife wound was shallow, and like you were just telling me, you've had worse. Tomorrow, I want you to report to your CO at 0600." Fury started to get up.

"And?" Clint said, following Fury's movements. "Then what?"

Fury paused. "Then I'll tell you what's going on." He turned and strode to the door. He rested a hand on the knob, shifting to look back at Clint. "You're right, Barton, you were being wasted out there. But I had to know that I could trust. _Really_ trust you."

"And?" Clint repeated, his face a stiff mask.

"And now I know," Fury said. "Welcome back, Agent Barton."

.

.

"So, Tony Stark is coming with us to find your bloodthirsty pal, who also happened to kill Tony's parents?"

Steve made a sharp noise in the back of his throat, jerking around to look at his living area's doorway. No one (Tony) was there, but that didn't stop his racing heart from beating heavily against his ribs.

 _Coward._

He shook his head, looking back to Sam, who was leaning Steve's desk, watching Steve pack a duffel for their upcoming trip. His arms were crossed and he looked completely comfortable as he eyed Steve.

Steve glared at Sam in response, who raised his eyebrows back.

"What could go wrong?" Sam added drily, his lips quirking.

"Tony wants to help," Steve said, ignoring the main part of Sam's statement. "We could use the help, Sam."

"Yeah, like Natasha's or maybe that Barton guy. Those two are the only ones that seem to know how to blend in. Sorry, Steve, but the rest of your team is a little flashy."

Steve didn't argue with that. "Tony is good at what he does. He might not be a spy like Nat or Clint, or a soldier like you and me, but he's smart and can adapt easily."

Sam shrugged, and apparently dropped it for the moment. He moved away from the desk, looking out the windows that overlooked the city, watching the world below move.

The TV that Sam had absently flicked on earlier hummed in the background, a news reporter chattering about something or another. Steve had found that day time reporting usually wasn't all that interesting after spending at least two days cooped up in the hospital after Bucky had—

Steve cut that train of thought off quickly. He swallowed and focused back on the clothes lined up on the couch.

He jammed a few items into the black, military issued duffel. He didn't want to take much; just some clean clothes and his stealth suit as well his shield that had been fished out of the Potomac River a few weeks after SHIELD fell. It was all he needed.

"What about what Natasha said," Sam asked, breaking into the brief silence. He turned around, leaning his back against the window. "What about the other Winter Soldiers?"

Steve paused, hands still clutching a sweatshirt. He eyed Sam. "We don't know if they're even real."

"Maybe. But do we want to find out the hard way? I think getting my steering wheel ripped out of my car by one Soldier was bad enough. I don't want to see what the others try to do when they find us."

"We can't go chasing ghosts," Steve said, and then winced, knowing he just lined up a perfect retort for Sam.

"What is it that we're doing now?" Sam said, taking the opportunity that Steve had given him. "Barnes is a ghost, and has been for decades. What makes you think we're going to do to find him if he doesn't want to be found, which he probably doesn't."

"There's me," Steve said, turning to face Sam fully. "No one else looking for him was me."

Sam shook his head. "Steve..."

"Sam," Steve said stubbornly. "He _will_ remember, and when he does, he'll let himself be found by us. Or, if HYDRA has him, we need to do our best to hunt them down and get him out of there."

There was a churning in Steve's gut at the thought of Bucky back in the hands of HYDRA. He didn't want to imagine what they would do to him to make him forget what had occurred in D.C.

Steve had read the file that Natasha had given him, cover to cover, but there hadn't been much in it. Only a few military reports from before Bucky had become the Winter Soldier back when the two of them had been fighting with the Howling Commandos, and a vague description that had been in German (translated by Natasha) about a mission of the Soldier's that had gone well.

Steve knew that those few papers in the file were just a small part of what had happened, and the truth about Bucky's time in captivity was more than what the papers showed.

Sam opened his mouth to voice his misgivings, but Steve shook his head, cutting it off before it began.

"I can't just leave him, you know that." He paused. "I'm not going to leave him."

Sam let his head hang briefly. "I know."

In the silence that followed, it was easy to hear the low buzz of the TV that was suddenly becoming more interesting than normal.

"— _he's back at Avenger's Tower, which as we all know, is owned by Tony Stark."_

Steve and Sam both looked at the TV, giving each other a glance before shifting to stand in front of the TV.

Sam plucked up the remote and upped the sound.

The news report looked like one of those gossip segments that updated the common person about their favorite celebrities.

Steve despised them, and not just because he had lost count of the times that the current man reporting had followed him around on the street asking for information on his personal life.

" _After the events in D.C. Captain Steve Rogers has been fairly absent from the public eye,"_ the man on the TV said, smiling so widely Steve thought his teeth were going to crack. _"But we have exclusively learned that Captain America is back home in New York."_

A blurry picture of Steve and Sam, both wearing dark glasses and baseball hats was thrown up onto the screen. They were entering the Tower, furtively looking behind them.

" _The question is: Who is that man with Captain Rogers? Why is Rogers back in New York? Is there an event that requires all the Avengers that the government isn't telling us about—?"_

Steve grabbed the remote from Sam's unresisting fingers and angrily switched off the TV.

Sam and Steve's reflections stared back at them in the black screen.

Sam turned to Steve. "Does this mean I'm famous now?"

.

.

 _There was blood on his hands. It was dripping from each finger and pooling onto the stone floor beneath him._

 _Deep in his mind, there was a part of him that was screaming and begging for it to end._

 _But outwardly, he was quiet, staring at his handler. The man was a low level handler; the one who oversaw the day to day, and not the actual assigning of missions._

" _Soldier?" the man said, snapping his fingers in front of his face. "I told you to kill the man, not wound him."_

 _The Soldier's eyes flicked down to the writhing man on the cold floor. He was very much still alive, despite the gaping wound in his chest. Blood was spurting out in strange little fountains from the cavity._

 _The Soldier cocked his head to the side, watching._

 _The man on the floor's mouth was gapping, but no sound was coming from him. His teeth were stained red; a strange contrast to their usual whiteness._

" _Hey, Asset," his handler clapped his hands together, the loud noise startling the Soldier, who held back the flinch that threatened. "Kill him." He jerked his chin down at the man, who was so far gone with the pain that he didn't appear to know what was going on._

 _The Soldier held his handler's gaze for a quick beat before he stooped down and reached out with his still bloody hands. He wrapped them around the man's neck, feeling the soft flesh beneath his one real hand._

 _For a moment, the man's neck resisted, but then the Soldier increased the pressure, his metal arm whirring angrily, and the man's neck abruptly gave out with an audible snap._

 _The Soldier stood up, facing his handler again._

 _The handler eyed him impassively, before his face broke out into a crooked grin. He reached forward, tapping his hand against the Soldier's cheek._

" _Good work."_

Bucky woke quietly, despite the content of his dream (memory?). He eyes flickered open, blinking away the images of the dream that lingered.

He was lying on his back on the hard cot in the cell, staring up at the clear ceiling. There was nothing to see above him. Just air ducts and vents. No possible escape that way.

Bucky wasn't exactly sure how many days had gone by since he had woken up in the glass cage for the first time. He was missing days; hours and hours simply swallowed up by the black hole in his mind.

But that wasn't very unusual.

Bucky generally wasn't awake, without constant conditioning, like this. HYDRA had always kept tight control of his mind and had restricted the few times he had been awake for extended periods of time.

Even when he had been training the little spiderlings (the name felt familiar, but like most things, he couldn't quite grasp it) for months at a time, he never had full control over his mind.

Of course, it had been months since D.C. when he had escaped HYDRA, but he hadn't spent much of that time actually thinking about he used to be.

The memories had started to come back then, but Bucky had refused to acknowledge them, and with his time spent killing HYDRA agents, he had managed to get away with it.

But the memories were now flittering into the front of his mind, demanding that he remember.

Most of the memories were unpleasant, like the one he had just woken up from (he knew it wasn't just a dream). They were filled with things he'd rather not remember; full of blood and pain.

But there were some good ones too. Those ones were vague and warm, making Bucky feel almost safe when the flashes of blonde haired boys passed behind his eyes.

"Barnes?"

Bucky didn't startle at the voice, even though he hadn't been aware that someone was outside his cage. If he was already slipping enough not to realize there was someone out there, than escaping wasn't going to be easy.

Bucky rolled over, sitting up. He stayed on his cot, but he eyed the woman standing just outside the glass. She was small, but had a dark glint in her eyes as she looked back at him. He made a mental note to avoid her if possible, but if not, then to kill her quickly before she made a move on him.

"I'm Agent Hill," she said, voice crackling through the speakers.

Bucky raised his eyebrows.

"Fury sent me to check on you." The explanation seemed like it was being pulled from her, and her mouth twisted.

Bucky didn't move, or bother saying anything.

Hill shifted and crossed her arms over her chest.

"I've had to deal with stubborn agents before, Barnes. The silence isn't going to work with me."

Bucky let a small smile flicker across his lips; it seemed like it already was, despite her words.

Her face darkened into a glare, and her mouth thinned.

Bucky cleared his throat, standing up. He strode forward to the edge of his cell. His barefeet were cold against the tile floor, but they hadn't given him socks or shoes, which was smart. You didn't give prisoners any footwear; it made it harder for them when they were escaping.

He could see a vague outline of his reflection in the glass, but he didn't recognize the man who stared back.

With a short frown, he reached his flesh hand up to rake back his hair.

Hill raised her eyebrows. "Concerned with your looks? I didn't take you for a narcissist."

Bucky didn't rise to the bait, even though there was a part of him that wanted to demand she try spending days in a cell with no access to a shower; the sink in the corner, near the metal toilet, just didn't cut it.

"How's your friend?" Bucky finally said, voice scratching against his throat.

Hill frowned. "My friend?"

"Barton," Bucky said, watching with satisfaction as Hill tried to cover the slight slip of her mask that showed her surprise. "I heard he got stabbed."

"He's fine," Hill said shortly, rattled but trying to hide it.

"Is he?" Bucky persisted, breath steaming up against the glass. "Poisoned knife? Those are rough." He reached his metal hand down to the edge of his cotton shirt, tugging up at the hem. He revealed his midriff, eyeing the collection of white and red scars that were scattered across his skin.

He jabbed his finger at a white puckered scar to the right of his belly button.

"That was a poisoned knife," he said, "hardly felt it. My handler didn't even know it was poisoned until I started convulsing in the back of the truck on the way back to base. I survived it. Clearly. Poison has to be stronger if they want to kill me." He pause. "But my handler didn't come back after that."

Hill was staring at him impassively, but Bucky could see that his words were making an impression.

"I didn't..." she started and then stopped.

Bucky let his shirt drop. "Didn't what? Expect me to be so human? Or inhuman?"

"Both," Hill said, surprising him with her honest answer. "Fury said that when you were brought in, you were practically a gibbering mess from whatever HYDRA did to you. I thought that we'd have our hands full trying to make you useable, but you're halfway there." The words were meant to cut, and they did, but Bucky didn't let it show.

"I heal quickly," Bucky said with a shrug.

And then a second later, he brought his hands up to smash against the glass. The sound echoed through the space.

She jerked away without meaning to. Her hand jumped down to the pistol holstered at her side, but she didn't draw it.

Bucky grinned at her, nodding at the gun. "Can't use that on me, unless I'm outside the glass. And even then, make your shot count." He gave her a knowing look, tapping a quick finger against the side of his head.

A breath shuddered out of her, and he could see how she made herself relax.

"I'm only going to say this once," he said, lowering his voice so that she was forced to step closer again. "Tell Fury to let me go, and I won't kill him."

She let out a laugh, some of her bravado coming back. "You've already had your chance and you missed."

Bucky shrugged again. "That was the Asset. I'm not him anymore."

There was a slight pause as she took this in. "So who are you now?"

"Keep me locked up for much longer and you'll find out," Bucky said, lips pulling back into a humorless grin.

"We can't let you just leave," Hill said, ignoring this. "You were HYDRA, and even if you aren't part of them anymore, HYDRA isn't going to just let you go."

"So I'll kill them," Bucky said easily.

Hill shook her head. "There's too many of them."

"Maybe," Bucky allowed.

Hill looked like she wanted to say more about that, but she fell silent as her phone buzzed in her pocket.

She ignored him for a moment while she took it out and eyed the message on the screen.

He leaned up against the glass, feeling the coolness of it against his skin again, so when she looked back up at him, he was closer than she expected.

She couldn't hide her flinch that time, and Bucky felt grim satisfaction seeing it. He gave her a small nod. "Let me out, or you'll be the first one I come for."

.

.

A/N: So...I still don't know what I'm doing, and I'm getting a bit discouraged with the lack of response on this fic, but I'm still planning on finishing this, so don't worry about that!

I don't have much to say about this chapter other than I apparently decided that I'm going write Bucky like a badass rather than a broken man with no memories, so there's that.

Also, I realize that it's been a fairly slow start, especially compared to a lot of my other fics, but since writing a couple of original novels, I've learned that it's better to start out slow and build things up before I have everything hit the fan. So just know that shit is about to get real. Just not quite yet.

Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

[4]

Clint checked himself out of the hospital a couple of hours after Fury left.

It wasn't really hospital, so the checking out process was a lot easier than it normally was for Clint. Back at the SHIELD base in D.C. the medical team there knew not to leave Clint alone in his room for more than a few hours, especially when he was seriously injured. Clint had developed a bad habit of leaving before the doc had given him a green light to do so.

He didn't like hospitals, sue him.

Someone, Maria probably, had made sure a set of clean clothes and his go-bag from Utah was left in the room. Clint dressed without even really noticing what he was doing, but it felt good to be out of the flimsy hospital gown and in a clean pair of pants and shirt.

He left the small room without a backward glance. He had no fond memories of hospitals, and apparently never would thanks to Fury.

Clint was livid as he stalked down the halls of Fury's compound. He could feel the anger flowing through his veins, making his fingers tingle with it. He kept his clenched hands down by his sides as he walked, trying to stay in control.

He hadn't had a great day (or however long it had been since Matthews had stabbed him) and now Fury was acting like the asshole that most people thought he was.

Obviously, Clint knew that he could easily leave and not look back. Fury wouldn't keep him here against his will. SHIELD was gone, and his contract with them probably wasn't binding anymore.

But.

Clint didn't exactly want to leave either.

He hadn't been a good man before Coulson had found him and dragged him from that life. Coulson had been the one to set him on the right path, keeping his focus on what was important and good. But Coulson was gone now, and all that was left was Fury and SHIELD to keep him in check.

In truth, he was a coward, too afraid to see who he was without the leash that SHIELD and Fury had created to hold him back.

"Hey, Barton, you're alive."

Clint looked up. He had wandered into the mess hall of the compound. It was only half-full, but Clint briefly wondered if this was the extent of Fury's trusted men.

Clint shifted his eyes to the speaker. He vaguely recognized the man. Todd Something.

He gave a wave at the man, preparing to move along, but Todd Something gestured to the empty spot at his table.

Clint hesitated for a beat, eyeing the group of agents, who had never been his friends back at SHIELD.

"C'mon, man, we haven't seen you in ages. We thought you might have died."

"Or that you were HYDRA," one of the others muttered into his food.

Clint's eyebrows pulled low and he glared at that man's back. The man squirmed a little as if he could feel Clint's ire.

After a beat of glaring at the man, Clint took a step forward and then slid into the edge of the offered bench. The other agents, scooted making room for him.

Todd Something pushed his plate of food aside, leaning his elbows onto the metal table, giving Clint a long look.

"So," he said lowly, "where were you when it happened?"

Clint eyed the food, his stomach giving a growl. How long had it been since he had eaten? The hospital hadn't even given him its usual jello and other nasty food, and Clint was starving. "When SHIELD fell?"

"Yeah, man, what else?"

Clint looked back up to Todd, giving him a shrug. "In the States, with my handler."

"Mission?"

"Yeah," Clint said. "Didn't finish it." He briefly wondered what had become of his mission in Nevada. It had been small time, and really hadn't been worth his attention, but it was clear now why he had been sent out there; HYDRA had wanted to keep as many of Steve's possible allies far away from him.

"We were lucky enough to be in the New York base," Todd said, nodding to his fellow agents. "Fought like hell to keep it out of HYDRA's hands."

"Great," Clint said, reaching forward and snagging an apple slice off Todd's plate. "Do you mind?" He didn't wait for a confirmation before he chomped into it, crunching on it loudly.

He looked to his left at the agent who had accused him of being HYDRA. He gave the man a grin, mouth full. The man averted his eyes.

"What about you? How did Fury find you?" Todd persisted.

"Why you wanna know, man?" Clint said, swallowing the apple and going for another.

Todd shrugged. "There's not many of us down here. Certainly not a high level agent like yourself. We just figured that you would have gone back to Tony Stark's Tower. You're one of the Avengers, right?"

Clint's eyes narrowed, even as his heart gave a painful thump against his ribs at the thought of his teammates.

"Sure," Clint said with a noncommittal shrug. "But Fury needed me so here I am." He stood up, reaching for the uneaten half of Todd's sandwich. "Thanks."

He spun on his heel, feeling their eyes on his back as he exited the mess.

Either they doubted his loyalty or were just a bunch of gossiping jackasses. Well, fuck 'em; Clint didn't owe them an explanation.

The sterile hallways of the compound almost felt comforting and soothed Clint's ruffled edges as he chewed on the sandwich. It felt a little like home—well, no. SHIELD had never really been home, but it had been somewhere were Clint didn't have to pretend, and had been mostly accepted for who he was.

It was hard to think that he might not ever have that again if he decided to leave SHIELD.

What he hadn't told Todd Something was that the Avengers had mostly disbanded after New York. Clint had spent some time in the Tower, but not enough for him to let his guard down and fully get to know the others.

He was so different from all of them. He was just a guy who wasn't all that special. At least Nat had the background to justify her position with the team; Clint just had an insanely good aim and happened to be in the right place when Steve Rogers had asked if Natasha could fly the quinjet.

So was he even really part of the team? Probably not.

Clint wasn't paying attention to where he was going, just blindly walking as he focused on not having a mental breakdown in the middle of everything. Not that there were many people around to witness it if he did, but still.

He had turned at least three corners and was down a level, but it was still a bit of a surprise when he almost walked into a thick metal door.

It didn't open under his hands when he tried it.

Clint eyed the door, and if this had been a functioning SHIELD compound it would have had some fancy thumbprint reader or something of that sort, but because this was just a bunker that Fury had probably bought in a fit of paranoid worry, it was just a locked door.

There was a sign on the door, but Clint didn't bother reading it.

He could read, despite popular belief, but he also didn't love being told what he could and couldn't do, which most signs tried to do. So he ignored them and could feign innocence when his superiors demanded just why in the hell he didn't read the sign.

Clint set to work on the lock with his set of picks. Maria really had made sure that everything he had with him in Utah had been in the hospital room, bless her. He wondered if his bow was in his pack too, or if not that, than his Glock. He really should have looked.

The lock was child's play really, and Clint had it opened in 30 seconds flat. He put his picks away, mentally making a note to tell Fury to get better security.

Clint spent a beat or two debating whether or not going through the locked door was actually a good idea. Who knew what Fury kept under lock and key in an secret compound; it could be dangerous.

Clint almost laughed at that thought; he had faced far worse than whatever Fury was hiding away. Probably.

He reached for the handle and the door swung open easily. Clint squinted into the room for a brief moment and then took a step inside the dark room.

It looked like the inside of a warehouse if Clint was being honest, but he knew that they were underground somewhere and so it couldn't be an actual warehouse.

But it was a large space. Large enough that it held a strangely lit glass cage in the middle of it.

Clint cocked his head to the side, sliding further into the room.

The cage was about as large as his hospital room had been, and from where he was standing he could see that it held a cot and a small toilet and sink. So it was a prison. Not super surprising considering who Fury was.

He took another step into the room, eyes glued to the box. He couldn't quite see, but he knew someone was lying on their side on the cot, head tucked down to their chin.

Clint knew that Fury wouldn't have locked this person up here if they weren't dangerous, and he hadn't been briefed about this particular prisoner because of whatever reason Fury had, but Clint was in a what the hell mood, so he shuffled closer, years of practice keeping his movements silent.

He hovered just outside the glow from the cage, eyeing the cage's occupant. The person was lying so still, Clint wondered if they were even alive.

"I know you're there."

The voice startled Clint and he almost jerked away, but stilled his movements at the last second.

He cleared his throat and stepped into the glow of the cage, close to the glass. "Didn't mean to sneak up on you, man." Ha, what a fucking lie that was.

There was a snort from inside the cage, the man clearly detecting the falseness of that statement.

"Did Fury send you?" he asked, still not moving from his position on the cot. "Tell him to go fuck himself. The answer is still the same."

Clint's eyebrows rose. "I will definitely tell him that. I'm sure he'll love it. He always does when I tell him that same thing."

The man in the cage let out a startled laugh, lifting his head for the first time to actually look at Clint.

Clint squinted at him; he looked familiar, but Clint couldn't place him.

"You don't like him?" the man asked.

Clint shrugged, scooting closer to the cage. "It's not that I don't like him. It's more like he's a dick and sometimes I don't love that."

"Hmm," the man said, frowning a bit. He shifted on the cot, and then sat up, getting to his feet a moment later. He faced Clint fully, eyeing him up and down with piercing eyes that took note of everything.

Clint did the same to him, eyeing the bare feet and tank top that covered scarred flesh. Exactly two seconds later, Clint's breath froze in his chest and his eyes widened.

The man had a metal arm melded to his body. It whirred as if it could feel Clint's incredulous eyes on it.

He blinked once. Twice. And then flicked his eyes up from the arm to the man's impassive face.

"Holy shit," Clint breathed, stepping even closer to the glass. He pressed both of his hands against the side of it. "You're the Winter Soldier."

.

.

Tony felt a little out of place, standing next to Steve and Sam inside the Avengers' main living quarters, watching the same picture of Steve and Sam being shown on the TV screen again and again.

He could feel the tension rolling off Steve in waves, even while Sam was relaxed standing next to him.

Tony eyed Steve as casually as he could without seeming too obvious.

Steve was standing with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, hands clenched into fists. His neck was corded as if he was holding weights, which Tony supposed he kind of was, metaphorically of course. His eyes were glued to the screen, narrowed and angry.

Tony cleared his throat. "You know if you don't relax, the chiropractor is going to have a field day with you."

Steve blinked and then tore his eyes from the TV to look at Tony.

"What?" Some of Steve's frown eased in the wake of his confusion.

Tony gestured at Steve. "You're all tense, buddy. It's gonna wreak havoc on your back and neck."

Steve was still giving him an exasperated and semi-confused look, but Tony could see Sam behind Steve, hiding a slight smile.

"Tony," Steve started, shaking his head.

"Eh, it's _your_ old man back at risk; do what you want," Tony said, cutting in. He paused and then added, "But, really, Steve, this isn't a big deal. The public knows that Avengers come and go from here. It isn't big news."

"Apparently it is," Steve said, nodding at the TV with a dark look.

"They'll be over it soon," Tony said with a dismissive wave. "I think we have more important things to discuss. Like your old pal, or maybe the other Winter Soldiers that our cunning red-haired friend told us about."

Steve gave Tony his full attention. "What?"

It seemed that Steve had almost forgotten that at some point during this glare-fest, Sam had quietly informed Tony what Natasha had told Steve. Tony had been standing in the living room with the other two, wondering how they could be so calm with more Winter Soldiers out there. He was practically vibrating in a fit of nervous energy at the idea.

"Well, we need to decide who we're going after," Tony said, as if that was obvious. "Your friend or the others. They're both threats as far as I'm concerned."

Steve's eyebrows rose, and Tony internally winced; he hadn't meant it that way. Well, he kind of did. Whoever the Winter Soldier was, he wasn't Bucky Barnes anymore. He wasn't Steve's oldest and closet friend, and the fact that Steve couldn't see that worried Tony more than he knew how to say.

Bucky Barnes was an unknown factor in Tony's mind, but he was still very much a dangerous one, and if Steve refused to believe that, than it was up to Tony to make sure that fact didn't get pushed under the rug.

"Tony—," Steve began, eyes narrowing.

Tony held up a hand. "No need to go through it again, Steve. I heard you the first time. Yes, he's your friend, but he's also the man who tried to kill you and almost succeeded. He's been brainwashed and tortured by HYDRA for longer than I've been alive. It's going to take more than saving you from the river to bring back the man you knew."

Steve's mouth worked as he chewed on his tongue, but he kept quiet, waiting for Tony to continue.

"I think the main threat that we should be pursuing is these other Winter Soldiers that Natasha heard about. We don't know anything about them, but if they're anything like your friend, than they're dangerous and could kill a lot of people before we even have the chance to react."

"So what are you saying?" Steve said, his focus completely on Tony now.

"I'm saying that your friend will be okay for a little while. We need to focus on these other guys."

Steve shook his head. "Bucky could be—"

"Steve, he's right," Sam interjected from behind Steve's bulk.

Tony and Steve both turned to include Sam into their small circle. Sam gave Steve an apologetic look and shifted closer, closing the gap.

"We know that Bucky can take care of himself," Sam said. "And if he got away after D.C. then he'll be okay. We need to focus on the threat here."

"But we don't even know that they're real. Nat only has rumors to guide us." Steve was grasping at straws and they all knew it.

Tony wished that he could give Steve the answer he wanted, but his job as Iron Man and an Avenger was to protect the innocent, and that meant putting Steve's feelings behind him and focusing on what was important.

"Steve, I know this isn't easy," Tony said, after a beat of tense silence. "I know that losing someone is hard." His eyes flicked behind Steve to one of the many couches in the living room. It was hard talking about his emotions on the best day, but doing it in front of a stranger (yes, he had been introduced to Sam more than once, but he still hardly knew him) and having to watch Steve's pity take over his face was making it harder.

"When I lost my parents...when I lost my mom," Tony continued, eyes firmly on a point over Steve's shoulder. "I can't imagine how I would react if it turned out she was actually alive and I couldn't go to her."

He swallowed roughly, looking back to Steve. He was mildly surprised not to see pity coming from Steve. Instead, Steve's face was doing a funny little dance, which Tony couldn't really make sense of.

He was also relieved to see that Sam had silently moved away from them and was standing near one of the large windows, giving them some privacy.

"Tony," Steve said, taking a deep breath. His face was set, but Tony could see the emotions swirling beneath the skin. "There's something I need to tell you."

Tony's heart immediately picked up its pace, and he frowned at Steve. "What?"

Steve didn't say anything for a moment and he looked away from Tony's face, something that wasn't normal for Steve.

A beat later, he looked back up and opened his mouth.

But Tony never got to hear what Steve was going to say because at that moment a bullet embedded itself into the thick glass where Sam was standing with a loud cracking sound.

.

.

"You know who I am?" Bucky asked, leaning closer to the glass to get a better look at the man outside. He didn't look familiar, but like Bucky had already established, that was hardly surprising.

He looked like he could be a formidable opponent. He held himself like a soldier, and Bucky knew that the man had already noted the different ways out of the room (two) and could come up with a weapon of some kind in the minimalist room (trash can near the door—Bucky didn't question why there was a trash can in the room). Plus, there was no telling what was in the pack that hung on the man's shoulder.

If Bucky had to guess, he would say that the man might be able to hold his own against the Soldier for a minute or two. Maybe less. Still, that was not bad, considering most people died under the Soldier's hands in less than a minute.

"Everyone knows who you are," the man said. He paused and then shook his head. "Okay, no, that's not true. But, yeah, I know who you are. Nat and I do talk occasionally. Not recently though." A thoughtful and almost mournful look passed over the man's face.

Bucky didn't know who this 'Nat' person was, but the man spoke as if he should know. Bucky frowned and shook his head.

"Who are you?" Bucky asked instead, nodding at him through the glass. "It's only fair. You know me, but I don't know you."

The man shrugged. "True."

If he thought it was a bad idea to give his name to the Winter Soldier, he didn't show it on his surprisingly open face.

"I'm Clint," he said, pressing a quick hand to his chest.

Bucky waited for a last name, but wasn't given one.

Clint let his backpack drop to the ground from his shoulder, still eyeing Bucky through the glass. "So how'd Fury get his hands on you?"

Bucky tensed and briefly considered not answering, but despite himself he found that he wasn't annoyed by this Clint person. "I was drugged when they found me."

Clint nodded wisely. "Been there."

Bucky felt a laugh itching in his throat, but he swallowed it down. He would _not_ laugh when faced with a potential enemy.

"Fury chewed my ass out for that one too," Clint said with a slight frown, eyes looking past Bucky into some distant memory. "Doesn't matter that it wasn't my fault."

"It wasn't my fault either," Bucky offered without really knowing why.

Clint nodded again. "It's a lot more common than Fury seems to think." His eyes shifted from Bucky's face to his metal arm again, paying close attention to where the flesh met the metal. Bucky couldn't tell what Clint was thinking, a mask suddenly seeming to appear on his still earnest face.

He waited for Clint to say something, to ask about the arm, but he didn't and silence fell between them.

After another long moment, Clint tore his eyes from the arm and looked back to Bucky's face.

Bucky raised his eyebrows and turned a little to give Clint a better view of the arm.

Clint's cheeks colored slightly as he shifted uncomfortably. He winced, hand going down to his side. Bucky noted the movement.

"Got stabbed," Clint said, eyeing Bucky and removing his hand from the spot. "Hurts a bit."

"Been there," Bucky said, lips quirking.

Clint's eyes widened and his mouth opened in delight. He jabbed a finger into his side of the glass, tapping it.

"I can't believe I just heard the Winter Soldier tell a joke! No one will ever believe me."

Bucky didn't answer, suddenly feeling uncomfortable with the idea that Clint would leave the room and tell other people about their conversation. Not that he was naïve enough to think that Fury didn't have the room lined with cameras, and could hear and see this whole conversation, but still, it had been nice to pretend that Clint didn't work for Fury and would be reporting all this back to him when he left.

That thought put a sour taste in Bucky's mouth and he frowned, moving away from the glass. He turned his back to Clint, looking at his unmade cot instead.

Fuck, he needed to get out of here.

With his mind working better than it had in years, Bucky finally felt like he might actually have a shot at something close to a life outside this place. Of course, he wouldn't just let HYDRA go on skulking in the shadows, so any semblance at a normal life was out of the question, but the thought of life, and not just a half life like he had been living before Fury had taken him, was appealing.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Clint asked, and for the first time since their short conversation started, his voice turned serious, and even Bucky, who hardly knew this man could hear the shift. "What does Fury want with you? There's a reason behind everything he does, and I know that he wouldn't just take you from wherever you were just to keep you locked up. That's not his style."

Bucky didn't answer, but he could feel his shoulders tensing at Clint's words. He bowed his head, hair falling into his face.

"He knows you're dangerous," Clint continued. "He wouldn't just leave you out there in the real world. But he likes to use whatever weapon he finds." He paused, working through the different possibilities. "He's not going to just leave you in here to rot, is he?"

Bucky turned back around, a dark glare on his face. Clint didn't flinch away like Bucky thought he would. Instead, he stared back steadily.

"It's okay," he said quietly. "I was a weapon too. Found and brought into Fury's arsenal." He shrugged. "Granted, most of it was my choice. Something I'm sure you didn't have."

Bucky didn't say anything, but he was trying hard not to be surprised at Clint's sympathy.

Clint eyed him for a long beat. "Steve doesn't know you're here, does he?"

Bucky ignored the way his heart beat against his ribcage at the idea of Steve. He didn't really remember his friend, but what he did remember was enough to know that Steve was _home_.

Bucky wouldn't have answered Clint's question, but he wasn't given a chance to do anything more than shift his barefeet against the tile floor.

The doors behind Clint banged open with a crack, and Hill and Fury stalked across the space towards the cage. The looks on their faces were murderous, and Bucky suddenly wondered if Clint was actually supposed to be in this place. Maybe he hadn't been sent like Bucky had assumed. Maybe he wasn't the potential enemy that Bucky had thought he was...maybe he was an ally.

Clint glanced over his shoulder at the two other agents before looking back at Bucky with a resigned look. He stooped down and picked his bag back up, slinging it over his shoulder.

"Looks like that's my cue. But hey, it was an honor to meet you. Steve never talked about you, but I grew up reading about the Howling Commandos. You were something like a personal hero of mine." He leaned close to the glass, the light from the cage falling onto his face. "And one sniper to another, we should really get out on the range someday and see who the best really is." He gave Bucky a grin. "Hang tight, buddy, I just have to deal with this shitshow and then I'll see what I can do about getting Steve." He turned on his heel to face the oncoming agents.

Bucky blinked at Clint's back, uttered baffled by the man. It was hard not to feel like he had whiplash from the conversation they just had.

But it was Clint's last few words that were echoing in Bucky's head as he watched Hill grab Clint by the arm and bodily drag him out of the room, hissing low words at him. Fury stayed behind, staring hard at Bucky, before whipping around to follow Hill and Clint out.

 _Steve_.

Maybe freedom was closer than Bucky thought. And maybe, he wouldn't have to kill anyone to obtain it. The thought was foreign to him, but it also filled him with a sense of quiet relief.

Death had always followed him around in a thick cloud, even before HYDRA had taken him. Bucky couldn't remember much of those early days, but he knew that he had been a soldier then too. It seemed like killing was all he knew.

But maybe with the right allies, he would be breathing clean, fresh air sooner than he thought. And without getting his hands red with blood.

The idea almost scared him.

.

.

A/N: So I almost didn't get this chapter done in time for Monday! Speaking of my (so far) quickish updates...I have to work all week and weekend. Literally every single day for the next week/weekend, so I really don't know when I'm going to have time to write. So maybe don't expect a chapter next week.

Also, singbrina suggested that I change this fic's category. So take it from the Avengers category and put into Captain America's. I'm gonna do that when I post this new chapter. I don't know that it would confuse anyone who's already following this story, but I just wanted to say something. Also, thank you, singbrina, for the suggestion!

I feel like I had more to say, but I can't remember now. So just enjoy the chapter and thank you to everyone reading/reviewing/following/favoriting!


	5. Chapter 5

[5]

The lights on the level suddenly went out, plunging Steve and the others into darkness.

There was another crack as a second bullet embedded itself into the glass where Sam had just been standing. He had already dropped to the ground and was crawling quickly towards Steve and Tony, who were crouched down behind the bulk of the couch. It wasn't much protection, but it was instinct to drop at the sound of gunfire.

"What the hell was that?" Sam demanded when he reached their side.

"A bullet. Two actually," Tony said, eyes flicking towards the windows, but not moving from the couch to get a better view.

Steve shot him a look, knowing that humor was only a mask for Tony, but now wasn't exactly the time for it.

"The glass is bullet proof," Tony added. "They're not getting in that way." His shoulders relaxed as he said it, as if he was reminding himself too.

It was silent for a moment, and then Steve and Tony exchanged a look, wincing.

"Then which way are they going to get in?" Sam asked, catching up with the other two seconds later. "If the window is only a distraction then how are they coming in?"

"Roof maybe," Tony said, gesturing towards the dark hall that was directly opposite from where they were crouching. The hall led to different rooms and bedrooms, and, at the very end of the hall there was a roof access.

"Downstairs has too much activity for them to get through it quietly," Steve put in. Even at this time of the night, there was enough security and workers that an assassin probably wouldn't want to risk coming through that way.

"Who says they're trying to be quiet?" Tony said, jerking his chin at the windows again.

Steve didn't answer him, instead he rose slightly to poke his head above the couch. He squinted at the window with the bullets rooted into it.

A third bullet punched into the glass, making Steve flinch back. He fought the urge to duck back down under the couch. The glass wasn't going to break any time soon; Tony knew what he was doing when he made the Tower, and besides, the couch wasn't going to do much to protect him from a sniper's bullet.

He straightened into a standing position, ignoring Tony's hissed warning to get down.

He walked cautiously across the room until he stood in front of the window. He looked out past the cracks into the darkness that lay beyond.

From what Steve could see, there weren't many options for a sniper to take a shot at the Tower. Meaning this guy, whoever he was, was good enough to be in one of the distant buildings with a poor angle, taking potshots at the Tower.

"Tony?" Steve called out, eyes still glued to one of the buildings lit up outside. "You've got your suit?"

He turned around to face Tony and Sam again. Both of them were standing now, and at Steve's question, there was an answering sound of metal clicking together as Tony's suit began to form around his body.

"If they're coming, they'll be here soon," Steve said. His fingers itched and he wished that he had brought his shield up with him, but instead it was sitting on his bed two levels down.

As if he knew what Steve was thinking, Tony, sans his facemask, clacked across the room, holding out a thick red watch.

Steve gave it a look, and then gave Tony the same look.

"It forms into a metal glove," Tony said, rolling his eyes. "It's not your shield, but it's better than nothing." He slapped the offered gadget into Steve's hand.

Steve strapped the watch onto his wrist and watched as it twisted into shape, amazement at Tony's genius rearing its head again.

He couldn't dwell on it for very long, because another bullet smashed into the glass.

"Sam—," Steve started, shifting to face his friend. There was a flash of movement behind Sam, and with only time to widen his eyes, Steve's shielded hand snapped up, catching the bullet that was fired his way from the new threat behind Sam.

Sam twisted around the second he heard the shot, but he didn't have anything to fight with, making him more of a liability than help. He realized this exactly two seconds after Steve and he dived out of the way, probably to find some kind of weapon, leaving Steve and Tony to face the threat lurking in the dark corners of the room.

Tony led the way, while Steve tried to curl into a smaller version of himself behind Tony. The suit would protect Tony from most weapons fired their way, but Steve was unprotected and while he could take more hits than the average person, he wouldn't survive multiple bullets to the gut.

Tony's facemask snapped into the place, but the threat didn't move from where he was standing on the threshold of the hallway, and he didn't take another shot at either of them. It was almost like he was waiting for them to come to him.

Unease churned in Steve's gut, but he ignored it, staying behind Tony as they stalked across the room. They stopped a few feet in front of the man in the dark.

Tony's palms were glowing as the energy in his blasters built up, but he wasn't firing yet either, waiting for the man to make the first move.

"Who are you?" Steve called out, peeking up behind Tony's shoulder.

Unsurprisingly, there was no answer, but the man moved from the shadows, coming into the little light left in the room.

Steve's breath froze in his chest and his heart stuttered. In front of him, Tony stiffened, shoulders twitching.

"Is that...?" Tony started to ask, but Steve didn't answer, staring at the figure in front of them.

It was Bucky.

Or at least the Winter Soldier.

He wore all black, with a stiff tactical vest covering his torso and a black muzzle type facemask covered most of his face, leaving only cold eyes staring back at Steve.

Wait—

Steve frowned. The eyes were wrong. They weren't Bucky's eyes.

Even when Bucky had been the Winter Soldier, with dead eyes that hadn't known Steve, the eyes had been undeniably Bucky's. These ones were very wrong.

"That's not him," Steve said sharply, bringing his metal hand to block whatever the Winter Soldier might throw their way. "That's not Bucky."

As if he had been listening to Steve, the man reached up and pulled his muzzle off, freeing his mouth.

His lips were stretched into a wide grin that was all teeth and no emotion.

"Captain Rogers?" the man said, voice laced with a Russian accent, but despite that, his English was clear.

He had a pistol in one hand, but it wasn't raised. This didn't fool Steve, who had seen the damage that Bucky could do with only a knife. If this man was anything like his friend than it wouldn't be smart to let his guard down.

The man's eyes flicked over Steve's shoulder, and he tensed, gun twitching a little. Sam appeared at Steve and Tony's side, a rifle in hand.

A beat later, Sam shoved a hard black pistol to Steve's free hand.

Steve didn't ask where the weapons had come from, glad that he was armed now. He could feel Sam, shifting to guard their backs, mindful of the bullets that had been hitting the window behind them.

"What do you want?" Tony demanded. "Why are you here?"

The man didn't answer Tony, his eyes were back on Steve, glinting in the scarce light.

"I am here to give Captain Rogers a message," the man said.

"Who sent you?"

This question was disregarded.

"You are looking for your friend, yes?"

Steve's mouth twisted. "What do you know about Bucky?"

The man smiled again. The gesture sent shivers down Steve's spine.

"He helped train me," the man said with a small shrug. "He was the first of us. Until they figured out how to make more." At this his eyes flickered to Tony.

"That doesn't explain what you're doing here," Tony said, annoyance growing in his voice. "If you're not going to answer, we should probably just finish this right now."

"I was sent here—"

"To give a message to Steve, yeah we know that part. But you haven't told us the message. So get on with it." Tony waved a metal hand impatiently, and it seemed like any hint of fear that he might have had when this had started had disappeared. The man wasn't trying to kill them currently, and now Tony just wanted to know why he was here.

"The message is this: you will never see your friend alive again. He was lost to you once when he fell off the train, and again when he was HYDRA's. You won't have another chance to save him."

The words thudded against Steve, hitting him like physical blows. He stopped breathing for a second, red filling his vision as the anger he worked hard on keeping in check rose up.

His lungs protested and Steve's chest stuttered as he heaved in a breath.

"What did you just say?" he finally said, voice low and harsh. "Where is Bucky? Do you have him? Who the fuck sent you?"

The man's hand raised and he slipped his mask back into place, ending the conversation. Steve noticed that the mask was a little bulkier than Bucky's had been back in D.C. It almost looked like a gasmask of some kind.

There was a slight pause, and they all tensed, waiting for the man's next move.

But he didn't make it.

Instead, behind him, another soldier stepped into view, hands clutching two black flashbangs. He didn't give Steve or the others any chance to react before he released both cans, rolling them towards the trio.

The cans exploded, two loud bangs followed by flashes of light filled the space.

Steve had managed to duck away from the light, but it didn't do anything for the noise and his ears were ringing with the sound.

Behind him, Sam was down on his knees, not as lucky as Steve.

Tony seemed to be the only one not affected by the flashbangs thanks to his suit, and would be the only one not affected by the smoke grenades that the Soldier heaved their way immediately after the flashbangs.

Steve instantly sucked in a lungful of air and held his breath against the smoke, but that do any good against the stinging in his eyes.

He shoved past Tony, who made an attempt to stop Steve, but Steve was determined to get to the two Soldiers who weren't making any move to leave yet. Steve didn't want to think what else they wanted, even though their actions had been fairly nonlethal so far.

Steve managed to make it past Tony, standing directly in front of both Soldiers. He raised his arm, shoving his black pistol at them, but his lungs were screaming and his eyes were streaming against the white smoke that had filled the room.

Steve's finger tightened against the trigger when one of the Soldiers raised their gloved hand, pistol of some kind in hand.

Steve had time to widen his eyes and think of how stupid he had just been before the Soldier fired three rapid shots from the gun.

Tranquilizers hit Steve in the chest, one after the other. Steve felt the drug fill his system immediately and despite his size and the super soldier serum, it was already taking hold of him. Whatever drug they were using wasn't normal. It was meant for people like him.

Or people like Bucky.

He was on his knees before he knew what was happening. The pistol that he had been about to shoot slipped through numb fingers, hitting the floor with a clunk.

Tony was shouting behind him, and a blast of his thrusters hit one of the Soldiers full on the chest, throwing him back into the depths of the dark hallway.

The second Soldier ducked Tony's second blast, leaning down towards Steve. His mouth was hindered by the mask and Steve's ears were still ringing, but he could hear what the man said next.

"Rumlow sends his regards."

And then the Soldier straightened and kicked Steve over, turning his focus to Tony.

Steve lay unmoving on the ground, hearting pounding against his ribcage. He couldn't see what was going on, but he hoped Tony would be able to hold his own against the remaining Soldier.

The next moment, Steve's eyes rolled into the back of his head, and darkness overtook him.

.

.

Clint allowed himself to be thrown into the empty room, hitting the opposite wall of the windowless room hard. He twisted around to face Maria and Fury, who followed him into the room.

He supposed Maria and Fury were warranted some of their anger; he had gone somewhere he wasn't supposed to be and turns out that was for a good reason. Though, Clint didn't really regret it.

Maria stalked towards him. "What the _hell_ do you think you were doing?" Maria hissed into his face, shoulders tense and hands tightened into fists at her side.

Behind her, Fury was remained still, arms crossed as he watched Clint from his single eye. That was somehow more terrifying than anything else Fury could have done.

Clint had seen Fury angry before. He had heard the yelling. He had seen the thrown objects. He had both of those things directed at him before, but this was different.

It wasn't just anger. It was disappointment. And maybe a little bit of consideration: How can Fury use Clint now?

Clint pulled his focus from Fury and back to Maria. He offered her a shrug, pressing back against the wall, trying to get away from her. She let him move, taking a step back herself.

"I was bored," he said. "I don't know anyone here. I was wandering around. You know how it is." He gestured with one hand, feeling more relaxed than he actually was.

"No, I don't actually," Maria snapped. "I usually pay attention to the rules, Barton. That room was restricted. There was damn sign!"

"Didn't see it," Clint lied.

Maria eyes narrowed as if she knew that he was lying to her, but her mouth pressed into a thin line as she struggled to regain her composure.

"Speaking of that room," Clint said, eyes flicking to Fury. "Why do we have the Winter Solider in the basement?"

"That's none of your concern," Maria said.

Clint ignored her, focus on Fury.

Fury stared back for a couple of beats before he slid further into the room, joining the conversation.

Maria moved to make space for her boss, some of her anger bleeding away.

"He's dangerous—," Fury started after a moment.

"No shit," Clint put in with a roll of his eyes.

"—he fell into our laps during a HYDRA cleanup, and we weren't just going to leave him. He's HYDRA's prized pet."

Clint felt his mouth twist; was that how Fury saw the Avengers?

"They molded him into their prefect soldier, and if he fell back into their hands, there's no telling what they would do with him," Fury said. "With us, we can keep him out of HYDRA's hands, and there's a possibility that he could work for us. Maybe he could do some good."

Clint blinked and then narrowed his eyes. "What about Steve?"

Fury didn't answer for a moment, and Maria gave her boss a quick look that told Clint all he needed to know.

Clint shoved off from the wall, throwing his hands up in disgust. "You've got to be kidding!"

"There are too many complications if we include Rogers into this," Fury said voice rising over Clint's continued protests. "For now he needs to stay in the dark."

"For now? How long does that mean?"

"It means that when I'm ready, I'll tell Rogers," Fury said, ice in his voice. "The same goes for you, Barton. You will not tell Rogers about our friend in the basement."

"Or what?" Clint knew it was childish, but he didn't care. The anger simmering in his chest was licking the edges of his ribcage, threating to burst. How could Fury find Steve's best friend, the only person he knew from the 40's that was still alive (besides Agent Carter), and not tell him? Even for Fury, a man who had more secrets than Regina George (Clint liked Mean Girls, sue him), that was cruel.

"Barton," Maria warned, shaking her head. It appeared she had taken the role of the calm one now.

Fury took a step forward, crowding into Clint's space where he stood against the wall.

Clint felt the wall hit his back as he moved away from the other man. His heart picked up its pace at the lack of escape routes, but he didn't let any of that show on his face. Instead, he sneered up at Fury, a glare firmly fixed on his face.

"Agent Barton," Fury said softly, leaning down, "are you asking to be locked up until you can be trusted with this secret? One that you weren't even supposed to know, I might add."

Clint's stomach dropped, and his hands clenched at his sides. He had been threatened with lockup more than once, usually by Coulson when he was at the end of his rope and never in seriousness, but the idea that Fury, a man that Clint ( _still_ , dammit) trusted, would throw him in a cell next to Bucky's and throw away the key until he was ready to make his play—that was a bit much for Clint.

But what was he supposed to do? If he said no, then Fury would make good on his threat and Clint would be rotting away next to Bucky. If he lied and tried to play along, Fury would either see through it and lock up him or...well, there really wasn't another option. Trying to pull the wool over Fury's eyes was difficult—almost impossible. Natasha might be able to pull it off, but Clint wasn't Natasha.

"No, sir," Clint said through stiff lips. He glared at Fury's dark eye. "I won't go running off to Steve Rogers with the news that his best friend is still alive."

Fury eyed him, looking for a lie, and then nodded. He didn't believe Clint. Hell, Clint wouldn't believe Clint. But Fury wasn't going to lock him up. Not yet at least.

And even if he didn't physically throw him into a cell, there was no way he was going to let Clint out of sight to make a phone call or to run off.

So no, 6' by 8' cell for Clint, but the compound that he had wanted to go to for so long had just become his jail.

Fuck.

.

.

Steve broke back into consciousness slowly. His limbs were stiff, twitching slightly at the idea of moving. His mouth was dry and when he shifted, his bones screamed in protest. Whatever was in the drugs they shot at him was still wreaking havoc on his system.

His eyes were crusted shut from the salty tears that had streamed down his face from the gas, but Steve forced them open. He blinked rapidly against the bright light shining from the windows.

He stifled a groan as he forced himself up into a sitting position. His head swam at the shift, and he pressed a hand to the back of his neck, fingers digging into his flesh.

"Tony?" Steve croaked, squinting against the light as he looked around the living room. "Sam?"

"I'm here," Sam's voice, just as hoarse as Steve's, came from Steve's left. "I don't know where Tony is."

Steve twisted around, finding Sam sitting on the floor in a hunched position. He was propped up against the side of the couch, one hand pressing to his head. Dried blood peeked under his fingers, making Steve wince.

"What happened?" Steve asked, throat constricting. He coughed against the dryness, hand going to his throat.

"I couldn't really see," Sam said, gesturing to the empty canisters that were still lying on the wood floor next to them. "And my ears were shot to shit for a bit, but..." Sam trailed off, giving Steve a long look. "But, I'm pretty sure they took Tony."

Steve stiffened, head swinging around to give the room another look now that his eyes weren't crusted shut. But he couldn't see Tony anywhere.

With a groan, he pushed himself into a standing position, legs screaming in protest. He ignored it, knowing that the drug was wearing off with every passing moment.

"How?"

"I don't know, man—"

"He had his suit on," Steve interrupted, eyes still flicking around the room looking for Tony. "It's not that easy to take him down. Not even for a Winter Soldier."

"I know that, Steve," Sam said, bringing Steve's attention back to him. He stood up too, mirroring Steve. "But they had you defenseless...they could have threatened your life. They could have given Tony the option to come with them or you would die."

"Why wouldn't they just kill me then?" Steve demanded, raking a hand through his hair. "Why is Rumlow playing this game with me?"

The thought that he had lost another friend to HYDRA was banging around in Steve's head, making it hard to think clearly.

Whatever game Rumlow was playing, it wasn't really his style. He was more of the kill first and ask questions later type guy. And then there was the matter of Rumlow being alive. Last Steve had heard, Rumlow had had a building dropped on him, but apparently he had made it out alive and well enough to try to enact revenge on Steve and his friends.

"Steve?"

Steve jerked around to face Sam again.

"I thought Rumlow was dead?" Sam said, voice growing stronger. "I left in the collapsing building back in D.C."

"I guess he made it out," Steve said darkly. He spun on his heel, feeling utterly useless. He had let Tony be taken, and if he had to guess than Rumlow was planning on using Tony for something.

"What are we going to do?" Sam asked quietly, bringing Steve's attention back to him.

Steve stared back at his friend, once again struck by how Sam was willing to go along with Steve. The loyalty and trust that Sam was putting in him wasn't a new feeling; the Howling Commandos and the Avengers had put trust and loyalty into him that he didn't always think he deserved. But every time it happened, especially by someone who barely knew him, it made Steve pause. It reminded him that he needed to be worthy of that trust.

He took a breath, letting go of his fear and anger when he exhaled. Those two emotions flickered into the back of his mind, hidden behind closed doors for now.

"We have to get Tony back," Steve said after a moment.

"And Bucky?" Sam asked, sitting heavily on the arm of the couch. He let his hand drop from his head, giving Steve a clear view of the split skin on the side of Sam's head.

Steve grimaced and Sam returned the gesture.

"Bucky will have to wait," Steve said, forcing the words out of his mouth roughly. "Tony needs our help."

Steve swallowed roughly; he _wanted_ to go after Bucky. He wanted to find Bucky more than he wanted to go after Tony, a private thought that he wouldn't be sharing.

But Bucky had survived for the months since D.C. on his own. Tony was different, not weaker than Bucky, just different. Steve knew that Tony had suffered torture in Afghanistan and because of it had become Iron Man.

Tony had never talked about it, but Steve knew that Tony was still haunted from what had happened. No one had saved Tony then—he had to save himself—Steve wasn't going to let that happen again; he wasn't going to leave Tony behind.

Sam gave him a nod, making Steve think that Sam approved of his choice.

Even though the choice was twisting in his stomach; it wasn't one that he had wanted to make, but Rumlow was forcing his hand.

.

.

Steve and Sam didn't have much to go on to find Tony, but they had more resources than an average person.

Natasha was called immediately and she promised to come as soon as she could. She didn't mention Clint, and Steve didn't ask, guilt tickling his mind.

Steve thought about calling Bruce, but he didn't actually know where Bruce was or how to find him, and Thor seemed impossible to get a hold of, what with him being on a different world.

The apartment was unscathed, other than the bullets buried in the glass window, and the flashbangs and gas canisters that the Winter Soldier had thrown.

Nothing else had been disturbed.

Steve wasn't even sure how they had gotten inside; the roof's door wasn't forced, but Steve was confident that was how they had gotten in. How they got to the roof was another matter, but the 'how' mattered less now. What mattered was rescuing Tony, but if they were lucky, Tony wouldn't need any saving.

A surprisingly quick time later, Natasha appeared at the Avengers' living quarters, striding into the space with a confidence only she possessed.

"Nat," Steve said, after she had done her usual check of the entire floor. He and Sam stood shoulder to shoulder at the kitchen table. Their bags were packed and the table had the little information they had to go on. They hadn't known where to go before Tony was taken and now that time was of the essence, the lack of information was like a slap in the face, taunting them.

"Steve," Natasha said warmly. She didn't make any move to hug him, but after working with Natasha for as long as he did, Steve could see that she was happy to see him. Her green eyes flicked to Sam. "Wilson."

Sam made a sucking sound with his teeth, shaking his head. "C'mon, I thought we were closer than that."

Natasha rolled her eyes at him, striding forward to peer at their work on the table.

The levity was appreciated and Steve felt some of the tension ease out of his shoulders. He watched as Natasha studied the maps spread out on the table.

"We don't have much," he said after a moment.

"I see that." Natasha didn't look up.

"But we think that they're near. Or at the very least, in the U.S." Steve added.

"Still a lot of ground to cover, Rogers," Natasha said. She looked up, leaning a hip against the table. "First things first. What have you told Pepper?"

"Who's Pepper?" Sam asked, but he was ignored.

"I haven't," Steve said steadily. "We're going to save Tony first."

"Dick move, Rogers," Natasha said, but shrugged. She looked back down at the maps. "You're right about them being near. I made a few calls before coming here. I have a guy who has had some deals with a man called Rumlow." Her mouth twisted into a humorless grin. "From what he tells me, Rumlow has set up camp in New York."

Steve shook his head. "You've got to be kidding. He's here? Then what the hell are we waiting for? Let's go—"

"Hold up," Natasha said, raising a hand. "It's not going to be that simple. First, he's managed to get his hands on the other Winter Soldiers. Where he got them, I have no idea. Second, he has Tony. He took Tony for a reason."

"Clearly," Steve said some of his frustration bleeding through. "But what's his game? Rumlow isn't the type to have some mastermind scheme."

"No, he's not," Natasha said, "but he also was HYDRA; he must have learned a thing or two. Besides, I would imagine that he's pretty pissed at you for what happened to him."

"But what's his plan," Sam said. "What does he need Tony for?"

Natasha shrugged again. "Either to lure us in, but unlikely considering that he had both of you at his mercy last night, or he needs Tony's help."

"Why—?" Steve started, but was stopped again by Natasha.

"Let's just say that he wants to inflict as much pain as he can on you, Steve. What's the first thing that he would do?" She paused, giving Steve a long look. "He would take away the only thing he knows you really care about."

Steve shook his head. "I care about Tony, but—"

"Not Tony."

Steve stiffened, closing his eyes briefly.

"He's going after Bucky," Steve said quietly.

Natasha nodded. "And he needs Tony's help to do it."

"That's doesn't make sense," Sam said, while Steve struggled to keep his emotions in check; he forced himself to pay attention to the present moment, focusing on Natasha and Sam.

"No, it doesn't really," Natasha agreed, but she didn't offer them a reason.

Silence fell, all of them staring at the maps scattered across the wood table.

Steve tried to pull his mind from Bucky, who wasn't captured by HYDRA it seemed, to why Rumlow needed Tony. It was all conjecture that Rumlow was even going to use Tony to find Bucky, but say that he did, why did he need Tony in particular? Tony was a genius, and if anyone could find Bucky it would be him. But _why_ him?

Unless...

"Shit," Steve grounded out.

"What?" Sam said, looking up. Natasha did the same, giving Steve a curious look from across the table.

"He's going to have Tony kill Bucky," Steve said, shoving away from the table, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"What?" Sam repeated. "Why the hell would he do that? Tony wouldn't kill your friend. He wouldn't do that, Steve."

Steve was quivering with anger and he didn't answer Sam. He paced the length of the table, Sam jumping out of his way as he passed.

"Steve?" Natasha said.

Steve ignored her. How could he have been so stupid? How could he be such a coward?

His path was suddenly blocked as Natasha slid into view. She raised her palms, carefully placing them on Steve's shoulders, pinning him in place.

"Steve," she said quietly, "tell us what's going on."

Steve swallowed roughly, but he didn't sidestep the question again.

He let his head hang briefly and then looked up again. "Rumlow is going to tell Tony that Bucky killed his parents." He paused. "Once Tony learns the truth, Rumlow won't have to force him to find Bucky. Tony will do it himself so that he can kill the person who took his mom from him."

.

.

A/N: Hey it's me. I survived my work week and I'm back with a new chapter! Speaking of this chapter, it was literally like pulling teeth. It was so fucking hard to write and I don't really know why. I'm still not satisfied with how it turned out, and tbh I kinda feel like it's a bit trash, but I can't keep poking at it, so I'm just gonna post it and hope for the best.

Good news tho, I know where I'm going with this fic! Yay me! I'm hoping to be able to post a new chapter once a week, but who knows if that will keep happening.

Anyway, let me know what you thought about this chapter! I would love to hear what everyone thinks, and if anyone wants to chat with me about it I'm buckky on tumblr.

Lastly, Merry Christmas everyone! And thank you for the reviews, follows, favorites! They really do keep me writing, so thank you.


	6. Chapter 6

[6]

Time didn't seem to exist for Bucky inside his cage. No one had come to see him since Clint had been dragged out of the room. Surprisingly, Bucky hoped that the other man was okay, and that he wasn't in too much trouble. It was a strange emotion for Bucky, but he didn't force it away either.

Bucky was propped up against the corner of the cage, bareback pressing against the glass. He supposed he should be cold; Fury had bothered to give him anything decent to wear, but then he remembered what true cold felt like.

— _Wipe him and put him on ice_

Bucky flinched, shoving himself further against the glass as if he could escape the memory. He squeezed his eyes shut, but that only made it worse. The images of where he had been when he was the Soldier flashed in front of him, pinning him into place.

The locations of where he had been were always different, but the room was always the same. The chair, an imposing presence, was always in the middle of the bustle of HYDRA men and women.

Sometimes, when he was drugged to his gills, the Soldier would be overtaken by Bucky, who would beg for them to stop. Stop hurting him. Stop making him kill. Stop stealing his memories.

They never listened, and he was forced into the chair once again and again. The chair would take anything he tried to hide from his handlers and spit on out onto their laps. It then would take everything he was and crumble it into ruins.

The physical pain was nothing compared to the chair, and what it did to him, but the scars from the physical torture was more noticeable, lining his skin from his head to toe.

Bucky's chest heaved and his eyes snapped open. His glass cage was out of focus as the images of what had happened still played out in front of him.

He sucked in a breath, filling his lungs with the recycled air. As he hissed it out again, the memories of his past slowly dissipated too.

Bucky's fingers twitched and he slowly reach his metal hand to press against the white scars that were traced into his flesh arm. They didn't hurt anymore, and the memory of how he had gotten them was hazy at best. He only hoped it would stay that way.

If he wanted to get out of this place, he needed to be mentally aware, and that wouldn't happen if his damn brain didn't keep repairing and trying to remind him of the last 70 years he had forgotten.

"Barnes."

Bucky didn't twitch; he had felt another presence a while ago, but then his brain had taken a left turn down memory lane and he hadn't really had the time to make a snide comment about sneaking around.

He didn't move from his position on the floor. Instead he let his head twist to his right, eyeing the black boots of his visitor.

"Eyes up, Barnes." It was Fury's voice, and Bucky felt a pinch of disappointment that it wasn't Clint.

Bucky let his eyes travel up to Fury's face, staring up at the other man.

Fury wasn't impressed with the attitude and it showed. His mouth was pulled into a line and there was anger glimmering in his dark eye.

"How's Clint?" Bucky asked, a slight smile tugging at his lips.

Fury didn't answer, but his hands tightened into fists at his sides.

"Doing well, I hope," Bucky continued. "He's a bit more interesting than the other one you sent here. Heely? Hill?"

"Hill," Fury snapped.

"Right," Bucky said. "I told her that I would kill her first once I got out of here." He offered Fury a cold grin that slid off his face just as quickly as it had appeared.

Fury's brows pulled down and the glare he was giving Bucky seemed like it could kill a normal person.

Bucky lazily blinked back.

"What do you expect? You've caged a rabid animal, and you don't expect to get bit?"

Fury didn't answer for a moment, regaining his composure; already shot to hell from whatever Clint had said to him, Bucky supposed. It must have been some attitude Clint was throwing around because Bucky was pretty sure that a few hours had passed, possibly even a whole night. Plenty of time for Fury to get over Clint and his big mouth.

"You see yourself as an animal, Barnes?" Fury asked voice steady again.

Bucky shrugged even though the words stung; he hadn't meant it that way exactly.

"I keep telling you that we can help you here. You don't have to be locked up by one group or another. You can help us, and receive your freedom in the process. You don't have to see yourself as an animal or a weapon—"

"But that's what you would use me as," Bucky interrupted with a quick shake of his head. "A weapon. You don't give a fuck about me. You only care whether or not I can be useful to you."

Fury shrugged, but didn't deny it. "You think I'm the enemy, but I'm not. You and I both know the real enemy is out there." He jabbed a finger in a vague way towards the ceiling; Bucky had already assumed he was in the basement of Fury's compound, but now it had just been confirmed. "You killed for the enemy. You fought for them. The blood of innocents are on your hands."

Bucky didn't move, but the faces of people he killed flicked behind his eyes, moving as fast as a newsreel. It seemed never ending, going on and on.

How many people had he killed?

Did any of them deserve to die?

Could he ever make up for what he had been forced to do?

Would it even matter—they would all still be dead.

"I know a thing or two about men and women with bloody hands," Fury continued. "Your new friend, Clint?" He jerked his chin towards the double doors. "He was one of the worst I've seen."

Bucky almost frowned.

"When my man found him he had more kills under his belt at the age of 17 than most people had at 40. Some were scumbags, but most weren't." Fury stopped and seemed to be waiting for Bucky to say something. Bucky didn't give him the satisfaction, and his mouth stayed firmly shut.

"Clint dug himself out of that hole," Fury continued after a long beat. "He made himself into something worth living for." He paused, eyeing Bucky carefully. "You can too."

Bucky pulled his eyes away from Fury and back onto the scars on his arm. He couldn't remember where they had all come from, but he did know that all of them had been created with pain.

The pain wouldn't stop even if he believed what Fury was trying to sell him.

His eyes flicked back up to Fury, who was still waiting for a response.

Bucky was on his feet in a second, eyelevel with Fury now.

To Fury's credit, he didn't startle away. He only stared back at Bucky an impassiveness from years of experience.

"How will be working for you clean the blood from my hands?" Bucky asked. "You want me to do the same thing. Do what you say. Kill who you say." He paused, eyes raking Fury up and down. "Kill for you, and I earn my freedom. It's a step up from HYDRA, so you expect me to get on my knees and thank you?" He shook his head. "Fuck you."

Fury gave him a nod as if he had expected this response. He backed up a step, still watching Bucky. "Keep thinking about it, Barnes. You're not going anywhere."

Bucky's lips curled back over his teeth, and he sneered at Fury's retreating figure. "Fuck you," he repeated, the words feeling good on his tongue, despite his lack of ability to actually do more than shout at Fury.

"Yeah, yeah," Fury said, spinning on his heel and striding towards the doors. "I've heard it before."

"And you'll hear it again," Bucky said, but Fury was already gone, the double doors swinging shut behind him.

.

.

Tony was pissed. More than usual.

He had allowed himself to be taken by the imposing Winter Soldiers back at the Tower in the hopes of saving Sam and Steve's life. It had been a very "hero" move, and while Tony didn't regret it, he did hate that he had been forced to make it.

All because of fucking Rumlow.

Rumlow, a man that Tony had never met, but already despised. He was a dick and an HYDRA agent, two strikes already, and Tony had only just been introduced.

"So," Rumlow said, voice distorted from the black oxygen mask that covered most of his mouth. It didn't do anything for the rest of his face though. Half of his hair was missing and the skin on one side of his face sagged and was rippled with red burns.

Tony felt his lips curl as he looked at the other man. It wasn't fair to judge another person on appearance alone, but Tony didn't think it counted in Rumlow's case.

"Tony Stark, in the flesh," Rumlow continued. Tony's eyes flicked back to Rumlow's. "Your pal didn't talk about you much when we worked together, but everyone knows who you are. Everyone knows you may act like a hero but deep down you're just like a child doing it for the attention." He paused. "And because sometimes you get a guilty conscious. Which is why I'm surprised you actually gave yourself up for Rogers and that other guy."

Tony frowned. "I'm not the hero type?" The words cut deep, deeper than Tony liked to admit. "I'm literally one of the founding members of the Avengers, and you think I do this for kicks? Okay, so yeah, fuck you."

Rumlow barked out a harsh laugh, leaning back in his chair.

Tony glared, but that was about all he could do. He had given up his suit at the apartment. He felt too exposed in his street clothes, and he kept tugging at the ends of his sleeves, pulling them low over his wrists.

It had probably been stupid to take the suit off; he could have taken those Winter Soldier pricks on, even with Steve and Sam down, but he hadn't. They had injected Steve with some sort of poison; it had knocked Steve out immediately, but it was slow acting and wouldn't kill him for hours. The antidote had been given to him once Tony had surrendered and taken the suit off.

Tony didn't know where he had been taken, but they hadn't put him on a plane, and the drive hadn't been long, so if he had to take a wild guess, he was still in New York somewhere. It was a ballsy move, staying in state, especially with Steve on his trail.

At least, Tony hoped Steve was on his trail, and not going back to his original mission of trying to find his long last pal, Bucky Barnes. But Tony didn't think Steve was that cold.

Rumlow was still speaking, but Tony was ignoring him. He needed to get out of here, but the trick was figuring out exactly where he was.

It was hard to tell when Tony had been bustled into Rumlow's office space with a hood over his head.

But from the little he could see was that Rumlow had set up camp in a sort of warehouse that was connected to the docks; Tony could hear the water outside. It was faint, but he could hear it.

As far as hiding places went, Rumlow didn't really seem to be hiding.

"Stark," Rumlow said, snapping his fingers. Tony's attention flicked back to Rumlow.

"Oh, I'm sorry, where you telling me your nefarious plan? I wasn't listening. You'll have to take it from the top," Tony said, clapping his hands together. "Ready? Go!"

Rumlow didn't look amused, but Tony couldn't really tell what was going on behind the mask.

Tony heaved a sigh and slouched further into his chair, feigning boredom.

"Listen, Rumlow? Your name is Rumlow, right? Sorry, Steve didn't talk about you at all." That was a lie, but if there was one thing Tony knew it was that egomaniacs didn't like to be reminded how insignificant they actually were.

Rumlow's eyes darkened, and Tony hid his smile.

"I'm not sure what you want with me, but if it was Steve you really wanted, why didn't you just him to invite him to this party?"

Rumlow seemed to be struggling to control his anger, and Tony knew that he couldn't push him too hard. He didn't particularly want to be killed just yet.

"Because your guys had him down for the count, not a feat that many can do, by the way," Tony continued.

"I don't need Rogers here just yet," Rumlow finally said, voice as even as it could be beneath the mask.

"But you do need me?"

"Your purpose is simple," Rumlow said. He paused, giving Tony a long look. "I need you to find Bucky Barnes for me."

Tony's eyebrows rose. He wasn't sure what Rumlow had been about to say, but he hadn't expected that.

"What?"

Rumlow cocked his head to the side. "Bucky Barnes. The original Winter Soldier."

"Yeah, I know who he is," Tony said, waving a hand. "But I don't understand why you need him. You already have at least two Winter Soldiers. Are you just building your collection up? Just need the original to complete it?"

Rumlow still didn't look amused.

"Besides, even if I knew where he was, why would I tell you?" Tony continued. "And, again, what makes you think that I can even find him?"

"I know all about you," Rumlow said. "You're a genius. And when you decide to do something, then it'll get done."

Tony wasn't sure if he should be flattered or not.

"Again—" Tony started, deciding that he wasn't flattered.

"You don't know what he's done," Rumlow interrupted. There was a strange gleam in his eyes that Tony didn't like. Unease trickled down his spine, pooling uncomfortably in his stomach.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tony demanded.

Rumlow let out a laugh and stood up from his chair. He didn't answer Tony, giving him a parting glance before he exited the bare room, leaving Tony alone.

Tony didn't have to look outside the door to know that there was one of the Winter Solders standing guard. Rumlow might not be the smartest person Tony had ever met, but he wasn't stupid enough to leave Tony with an easy way out.

But escaping wasn't what Tony was most worried about; that had taken a backseat for the moment. He was more concerned about what Rumlow had meant about Bucky. What had Steve's friend done?

Plenty, if the internet was to be believed (Yeah, yeah, Tony knew all about the dangers of believing everything you read).

Tony had, of course, looked up James Buchanan Barnes after Natasha told him what had happened in D.C. Steve had never told them much about his life before he had woken up in the ice, and to be honest, Tony had never asked, had never really wanted to know.

When Tony had sat down in his lab, he had run two separate searches.

The first was about Sgt. Barnes and his life with Steve and the Howling Commandos, but Tony had grown up hearing all about that, so he hadn't done much research. It wasn't like he hadn't already known that Steve and his war buddies were heroes; it was practically the only thing Howard Stark had ever really talked about when he spoke of his time during the war.

The second search was on the Winter Soldier. As far as the general public knew, he was a ghost. Not many people knew that Barnes and the Winter Soldier were one in the same, which was for the best.

That search had chilled Tony down to the bone. The faces of death that followed in the Soldier's wake was enough to make Tony wish that Steve had never realized that Bucky was alive. There was no telling the full extent of what Bucky had done and who he had killed.

So what was it that Rumlow wanted to tell him? Out of all the horrible things Bucky had done, which one of them did Rumlow think was enough to make Tony give up any semblance of resistance and hunt down Steve's friend from his old life?

Tony was pretty sure he didn't want to know.

But he also knew that Rumlow wasn't going to give him a choice.

.

.

Clint ended up back at the locked doors that led to Bucky's cage. He was staring at the double doors, wondering if he had the guts to break into the room a second time.

From the looks of it, Fury hadn't upgraded the security at all since last night, which almost seemed like Fury was baiting him with it. But maybe Clint was just reading into it too much.

Clint's arms were crossed over his chest, and he glared at the doors.

The sting of Fury's betrayal was still smarting, flickering along his skin like an itch.

Clint knew that Fury was ruthless; he had known that from the first moment he had met the other man. Coulson had tried to warn him, but Clint hadn't truly understood what he meant until he had come face to face with Fury for the first time.

Fury had given him three choices: Work for SHIELD, go to jail, or go back to the mercy of Clint's enemies.

Clint had already made up his mind before then, but when Fury had presented his choices and had shown no sympathy, Clint knew that he was only going to have one chance with Fury. One chance to prove himself, and one chance to fuck up.

But that hadn't been exactly true; Clint had used up a lot of his nine lives with Fury during his time working for SHIELD, but the fact remained that if Clint _truly_ fucked something up, Fury would drop him without a second thought.

Probably.

Clint blinked himself back into the present. The doors still stared back at him, silent and without answers for Clint.

"Fuck it," Clint said, voice echoing down the corridor. He strode forward and crouched down by the locks.

He shook his head while he worked on the locks, wondering if Fury was even going to bother upgrading the security, but then again, he probably didn't have to worry about the rest of his men breaking into the basement.

The doors opened under his hands and picks again, easier the second time, and Clint eased himself inside.

It looked exactly the same as before; no changes had been made to Bucky's cage from what Clint could see. He didn't know if that was a good thing or not.

When he moved closer to the cage, Clint could see that Bucky was lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling with his hands clasped together on his bare chest.

Clint frowned, coming to a stop just shy of the glass.

"Hey," he said, almost expecting to startle Bucky with the sudden noise, but Bucky didn't even move. "Aren't you cold in there without a shirt? Also, why the hell hasn't Fury given you proper clothes?"

Bucky's hair was splayed out around his head in a dark cloud, and when he moved his head to look at Clint, the cloud shifted.

"You're back," Bucky said, eyeing him from the ground.

Clint shrugged. "Fury wasn't going to kill me."

"You never know with men like him," Bucky said, sitting up.

Clint did know; he had met quite a few men like that in his time, and he supposed Bucky had too.

"Just a slap on the wrist, blah blah blah," Clint said with a quick roll of his eyes. "Although, I'm pretty sure that all of my phones have been taken and that I'm not leaving Fury's super-secret compound anytime soon."

Bucky's eyebrows rose a little. "That's all?"

Clint frowned. "Excuse me. I do happen to like my freedom. And my friends. Now I've got no way to communicate with the outside world...which, of course, you know all about," Clint trailed off, realizing his words were a bit insensitive.

Bucky didn't exactly smile at Clint's discomfort, but there was a quirk that flashed along his lips that made Clint think that maybe he wasn't being as much as an ass as he thought he was.

"Back to the important question," Clint said after a moment. "Your clothes aren't very warm. Aren't you cold?" The basement wasn't exactly cold to Clint, but it was more of a comfort thing to him. He wouldn't want to be spending all day and night with only a pair of thin pants.

Bucky shrugged as he crossed his legs into a more comfortable position on the ground.

"It makes it harder for me to blend in if I happen to escape. No shirt and no shoes makes it noticeable that something isn't right with me," he said.

"Oh yeah," Clint said, feeling stupid. There had been too many times to count when he had escaped and had to run through cobblestone streets without any shoes. Not the most fun time.

It wasn't that Clint had forgotten, it was more the fact that he hadn't really seen Bucky as a prisoner. Sure, he was locked up, and sure Fury was being a dick to him, but he was also _Bucky Fucking Barnes_.

He was Steve's oldest friend. He was a war hero. He wasn't meant to be locked up in the basement.

In the pit of his stomach, Clint feel anger stirring. He tried to clamp down on it; he couldn't do anything about it yet. Not with Fury watching him.

Speaking of that...

"Fury probably has eyes on me again," Clint said, glancing up and around the room. He couldn't see any obvious cameras, but he knew they were there.

He twisted around, lifting both hands up in a particular gesture, and when he faced Bucky again, the other man really was grinning this time.

"Just showing him some love," Clint said, but was inwardly pleased at the first real show of emotion from Bucky.

Silence descended on them, making Clint squirm under the weight of it.

He eased himself down onto the cold floor, facing Bucky through the glass. He felt a bit uncomfortable; this wasn't exactly a normal situation, and he felt like he was betraying Steve for just sitting there and not doing anything to get Bucky out.

"I'm not cold," Bucky said suddenly, breaking through Clint's internal discomfort.

Clint focused, giving Bucky a look.

Bucky wasn't exactly looking him in the eye; his eyes were somewhere over Clint's shoulder, looking into the depths of the warehouse.

"I've been colder," Bucky said. "This..." He gestured to the lack of shirt and shoes. "This is nothing."

Clint wanted to ask, the question was on his tongue ready to slip out, but he didn't. He kept his mouth firmly shut; he could guess what Bucky was trying to say.

He had read the book, he knew where Sgt. Barnes had fallen to his "death." He also knew that in order for Bucky to still be alive, HYDRA had to have frozen him in some sort of machine. He couldn't guess the specifics, but knew it had to have been worse than the chill in Bucky's cage.

Clint swallowed, feeling useless and somewhat responsible for Bucky's current predicament.

"I, uh, I wasn't able to reach Steve," Clint said after another long moment. He shifted his eyes from Bucky's hunched form to the glass between them. "I mean, Fury and Maria didn't really give me a chance to contact him."

Bucky's blurred form shrugged. "I didn't really expect you to."

"They won't let me out of here if they think I'll tell Steve where you are," Clint continued, eyes still unfocused. "Bastards."

Bucky didn't say anything and Clint felt worse. He had promised to get Bucky out of his cage, and to try and bring Steve into the picture, but he hadn't done either of those things. Admittedly, it had literally only been a day since he had promised his help, but still Clint felt like he should have been on top of this shit.

"Fury wants me to work for him," Bucky said abruptly.

"For SHIELD," Clint corrected, focusing on Bucky again. "Actually, no, you're right. He wants you to work for him."

Bucky eyed him, a question hovering behind his lips.

Clint gave him a moment to ask it, but the silence stretched.

"It's not that bad," he finally said. "Fury is a good guy—usually. He helped me out of a tight spot and gave me a place with his people. I've saved lives, and I've found some good people that I call family." Clint paused. "Obviously, Fury is in a bit of a panic right now. SHIELD wasn't supposed to fall. Without it, I don't think he really knows who he is. He's trying to figure that out, and while he's doing that, he's bullying you and me into working for him."

Bucky's head cocked to the side. "You have an interesting relationship with Fury."

Clint's eyes narrowed, looking for some sign of mockery, but didn't find any. Bucky seemed genuinely curious.

Clint cleared his throat. "Bastard is probably listening, so I'm only going to say this once: Fury is more of a father to me than my actual father. He gave me a chance when no one else wanted to. He gave me purpose, and he keeps me in line. Without him, I would be dead in a ditch somewhere. I owe him my life." Clint paused. "But that doesn't excuse what he's done to you."

Bucky shrugged. "I've had worse."

Clint's mouth twisted; he didn't want to know.

There was a questioning look on Bucky's face, and it was Clint's turn to cock his head to the side.

"Are you—are you actually considering taking Fury's offer?" Clint asked, not bothering to hide his disbelief.

Bucky shrugged. "He's offered me freedom if I work for him. But it would be freedom on a leash; I'm not particularly interested in that." He paused. "But, I might think about it if I had the right team."

"You mean Steve," Clint said with a knowing nod. "He's a good man; most of the Avengers are, but I'm not sure you know about them? Doesn't matter. Steve is the team leader—you know this. You do remember that, right?"

Bucky gave him a glare, and Clint's mouth snapped shut.

"I wasn't talking about Steve—he's not ready to face me. Not this version of me anyway."

Clint frowned, confusion skittering across his face. "Okay?"

Bucky closed his eyes and a long suffering look appeared on his face; one that Clint was very familiar with. He had seen the same look on Coulson, Natasha, Fury—well, anyone he's ever worked with really.

"I'm talking about you, dumbass," Bucky said, eyes flicking back open. "I've talked to you for exactly twenty minutes, and I already know that you're loyal to a fault. You would never abandon your teammates." He paused and then added, "But you have an abandonment issue yourself."

Clint frowned and opened his mouth to argue, but Bucky didn't let him.

"Loyalty and skill," Bucky said. "I see both of those qualities in you. If I were to choose my own team, that's what I would need in a teammate."

Clint's frown deepened; he felt oddly flattered, but also a little alarmed. As much as he felt that he owed Fury everything, he didn't want Bucky to give in; he didn't want Bucky to do what Fury demanded and work for him. Bucky deserved his freedom. He deserved peace.

But if Fury had any say, Bucky wouldn't see peace for a very long time.

.

.

A/N: Hey look at that! I got another chapter written in like a week!

So...I don't know if you guys noticed, but I LOVE writing dialogue. Like, it's totally my thing and I sometimes forget that I'm supposed to be writing a whole story and not just dialogue. So, the majority of my fic is literally just our people chatting with each other. I hope that everyone is enjoying that because at this point, I'm just sorta going with it. Some action and plot things should be happening soonish so there's that.

Anyway. Hopefully you're all enjoying this! Thanks for the reviews, favorites, follows!

EDIT: I posted this chapter like a day ago, but for some stupid reason none of the little edits I made to it were saved? So like I just noticed (at like 1am on a night were I have to work the next day) and I quickly skimmed through and made some small spelling and grammar edits. Nothing really huge, but it was bugging me. Also, I'm pretty sure my edits the first time through were really good and the ones I just made are only okay. Who even knows at this point. Not me.


	7. Chapter 7

[7]

Tony was alone.

He had been left in the small office space for hours. It should have been plenty of time for him to devise some sort of escape, but the room was bare except for the two wooden chairs that he and Rumlow had been sitting on. The chairs wouldn't be much use to him, unless he broke them and used the legs as weapons, but again, it wouldn't do much against Rumlow's Winter Soldiers.

So all Tony could do was sit in the corner with his back jammed against the sharp edge of the wall and let his thoughts race through his mind too fast to pin down. He tried to work through alternative reasons that Rumlow would want him for, but none of them were good, so he stopped doing that.

Tony wasn't thrilled with the idea of waiting for Steve to come rescue him, but at this point he wasn't sure what else he could do.

Rumlow hadn't given him any other options other than to wait. He was literally backed into the corner, and he didn't have many choices left.

The door rattled, startling Tony out of his thoughts. He sprang to his feet, tensing as he watched as the doorknob slowly turned.

If he wanted to attempt to use brute force to get out, this would be his chance; he could use the element of surprise and if he could his hands on one of the pistols that Rumlow and his Soldiers carried at their hips then maybe—

The door shoved open, and Rumlow stepped in, flanked by one of his Soldiers.

Tony was almost relieved that he wasn't given have a chance to make a move against Rumlow; he wouldn't have gotten far anyway.

"Stark," Rumlow said, pausing just inside the room. He glanced around the small space, but nothing was out of place; there was no sign of Tony making any attempts at an escape. Tony bit down on the inside of his cheek, forcing away the flush of shame of his own helplessness.

"Glad to see that you haven't tried to do anything stupid," Rumlow continued, striding further into the room. He nodded to his Soldier, who Tony realized was carrying a folded table for some reason.

The Soldier moved past Rumlow and quickly and silently set up the table between Tony and Rumlow.

Rumlow waited until the Soldier finished and moved back to the open door, standing with his hands clasped together in front of him.

Tony glanced from the Soldier to the table and then finally to Rumlow. He raised his eyebrows, feeling some of his fear and shame trickling away at the absurdness of the situation.

Rumlow shrugged in response, and then carefully set down a bulky laptop onto the table.

"Is that what I'm supposed to use to find Barnes with?" Tony asked, folding his arms over his chest. "I'll ask you once again, because it doesn't seem to be registering with you: what makes you think I'm going to do anything for you?

"And anyway, what's the point of this?" Tony continued. "You've captured me to try and find Bucky Barnes—why? So you can kill him and then taunt Steve Rogers with it? It doesn't make any sense. Besides, last I heard Barnes was on your side. He's one of them." Tony nodded toward the silent and imposing Soldier at the door. "You would probably have better luck than me finding him."

It was hard to get a read on Rumlow with his mask covering half his face, but Tony had the distinct feeling that Rumlow was laughing at him and enjoying every second of Tony's confusion.

"So the smartest man in the room is feeling left out, is he?" Rumlow asked. He didn't give Tony a chance to retort adding a second later, "I need your help, Stark, because Barnes isn't with HYDRA anymore. He's been gone for months." He shifted, moving to stand next to his Soldier. "Boris, or whatever the fuck his name is, here isn't _really_ a Winter Soldier, not in the sense that Barnes is. Boris volunteered for the serum. It didn't quite work out and fried his brains a little," Rumlow said casually as he tapped the side of his own head.

Tony swallowed roughly and he let his arms drop down to his sides, wondering where this was going.

"Lucky for me, I found a handy little guide on how to work these suckers. The basics are just point them in the right direction and let them go—it's not the fine tuning work that was put into Barnes. If I get a chance before I kill Barnes, it would be fun to play a little," Rumlow's eyes crinkled like he was smiling behind the mask.

Tony felt sick. He didn't really know what Rumlow was talking about; more and more convinced at this point that Rumlow had lost his mind when that building fell on him.

"This has nothing to do—," Tony started, trying to get Rumlow back on track, but was cut short when Rumlow slapped his hands together with a crack.

"Right, of course," Rumlow said, moving away from the Soldier again. He stood by the table, his fingers tapping along the black lid of the laptop. "Let's get back to the serum I mentioned. It was developed back in the 90's, but not by one of our people." He paused, giving Tony a long look. "None of our people had any idea of where to even start working on a serum like the one that had been given to Rogers. The little guy that used Barnes as his lab rat might have had some idea, but he died before it could be developed into anything concrete, and anyway, it wasn't his smarts that had made Barnes into the Winter Soldier. I was always told that it was something about Barnes that was special, but that's beside the point." He waved a hand, dismissing the information as quickly as he was giving it.

Rumlow was rambling now, and Tony could feel sweat starting to drip down his back; wherever this was going felt like a train wreck, one that Tony couldn't get off of, but also wasn't ready for it to be over.

Dread pooled in his stomach because he knew that when Rumlow pulled it together and finally got to his point, it would change everything for Tony. Whatever it was, Tony didn't think he wanted to hear. For once in his life, he would rather stay ignorant.

"Look at me, letting my mouth run away again," Rumlow said suddenly with a harsh laugh. "Let me get to the really important bit." He paused. "The serum used on Boris was made by your father, and HYDRA wanted it."

Tony's breath froze in his chest. He stared at Rumlow, unable to look away.

"They sent Barnes to get it," Rumlow continued, leaning his hands onto the table. "It didn't take him long to acquire it and bring it back to HYDRA. But that was only after he killed your parents."

"Bullshit," Tony managed to get out through numb lips. It felt like he had been punched in the gut and he had no more air left in his lungs. He couldn't breathe and he staggered a little, hands reaching for the back of one of the wooden chairs. He gripped it with white knuckles.

Rumlow didn't even acknowledge Tony's denial. "Not only did Barnes kill your folks, but your buddy Rogers knows about it."

"Bull _shit_ ," Tony repeated, stronger this time because he knew that was a lie. Steve would have told him if this was true. He clung to that bit of knowledge like a lifeline.

Rumlow shrugged. "I guess I can't actually confirm that, but I see you also don't believe me about Barnes. Not entirely anyway. Luckily, seeing is believing. So..." he trailed off, working on getting the laptop up and powered on, hiding most of the screen with the bulk of his body.

"There," he said after a quick moment. He moved to the side, giving Tony a perfect view of the screen.

Tony didn't want to look at it, but his eyes were drawn to it like moths to flame.

It showed a grainy black and white video of a street. It was a very familiar street. One that had haunted Tony's dreams for years.

.

.

Too much time had passed since Tony had been taken by the Winter Soldiers.

Steve didn't want to think what Rumlow needed Tony for. Steve felt like Rumlow's plan had to involve more than just telling Tony what had happened to his parents.

But if that really was part of his game than Rumlow would have had plenty of time to tell Tony the truth about his parents' death.

A selfish part of Steve still held on to the sliver of hope that maybe Rumlow hadn't gotten around to it yet; maybe he still had time to save Tony before the truth came out.

Steve wasn't stupid enough to think that Tony would simply shrug away the news and go on like nothing had changed. Worst case scenario, Tony would hunt Bucky down and kill him. Best case, he would never forgive Steve. Neither of them sounded good.

But he couldn't think about the consequences just yet. First he actually had to rescue Tony, which if luck was with them, would be happening soon.

With Natasha's contacts, they were able to pinpoint Rumlow's location fairly easily, something that made Steve nervous; it shouldn't have been that simple.

Rumlow was set up near the docks in a large warehouse. From what Natasha's man had said, Rumlow was dealing in drugs, protection, and hired thugs, so the location made sense, but what Steve couldn't really understand is why Rumlow was in New York. It didn't seem like he was even bothering to hide.

In fact, it seemed like he was baiting Steve into coming to him.

"Head in the game, Rogers," Natasha's voice sounded from the comm in his ear, pulling his attention back to the rusting side of the warehouse. She was somewhere on the other side of the building, near the water, but somehow she was still able to peg Steve's mood from yards away.

She knew him too well, but Steve was grateful for her quick and metaphorical kick in the ass; he needed to focus on what they were about to attempt.

"Does anyone actually have eyes on Stark?" Sam asked, also from the comm. He was somewhere on top a nearby building with his wings strapped to his back, ready to fly on Steve's command.

Steve shook his head, even though he knew Sam couldn't see him.

"No, but we have to assume that if Rumlow is in there, then so is Tony," Steve said.

They had staked out the warehouse for a few hours, long enough for Rumlow to show himself. He looked worse than Steve had imagined; although, considering that he had survived a building getting dropped on him, he didn't look all that bad.

The warehouse itself wasn't bustling with activity like Steve would have thought. It was just another reason that Steve's stomach was clenching with worry; it seemed too easy.

Turned out, Steve was right: It was too easy.

There was a bomb rigged to the entrance that blew as soon as Steve knocked the doors down.

Natasha was behind him and Sam was still flying above the warehouse, making sure no reinforcements were coming, so Steve took the brunt of the bomb. Well, his shield took it, but it knocked him back into Natasha, shoving them backwards onto the gravel road.

They were back on their feet seconds later, ears ringing but with no broken bones or blood streaming down their skin. The bomb, all things considered, was small and hadn't been designed to kill.

Inside the surprisingly well-lit warehouse, the Winter Soldiers were waiting for them, but there wasn't anyone else that Steve could see.

Either Rumlow had another ace up his sleeve or he had completely lost his mind and was only counting on the two Soldiers to keep him safe.

Steve and Natasha exchanged a quick look, and then charged the Soldiers.

Steve snapped his shield out towards the uncovered face of his Soldier, catching the man's nose and snapping it.

Blood streamed out of his nose, but the Soldier didn't seem to notice.

He shoved Steve away, and in the same motion brought up his pistol, firing off two quick rounds.

Steve ducked behind his shield, hearing and feeling the bullets smack into the metal.

He ran forward again, leading with his shield. He hit the Soldier with his full weight, propelling him backwards. The pistol knocked out of the Soldier's hand, but that didn't mean that he didn't have another weapon somewhere on him.

There was noise from Natasha's fight, but Steve couldn't afford to give any attention to it, keeping his complete focus on the emotionless Soldier that was trying to kill him.

The Soldier's fists were flying too quickly for Steve to catch every single one, and the force behind the blows were powerful. One of catching Steve in the gut and knocking the breath out of him.

Steve staggered back, trying to regain his breath, but the Soldier was on him in a second.

Steve's head snapped back as the Soldier's knuckles smacked into his cheek. He blinked rapidly, kicking a boot out to knock the Soldier away and give him some space.

He tasted copper his mouth, having caught the side of his cheek with his teeth.

Behind him there was the sound of metal on metal and a moment later, Sam appeared next to him, wings folding neatly on his back.

Sam had his pistols in hand, and he fired both of them one right after the other at the Soldier.

Steve could see that the Soldier hadn't expected the sudden attack from a new party, and his dull eyes widened as the bullets hit home.

He stumbled away from Steve and Sam, but he wasn't down yet.

Sam's head jerked around to Steve. "I've got this. Find Stark and Rumlow."

Steve hesitated, not wanting to leave Sam to the wounded Soldier, but he gave his friend a tight nod and started running past the two Soldiers.

From the brief glimpse he saw of Natasha, she was holding her own against the Soldier, but Steve had expected that; he firmly believed that she was capable of taking anyone down, no matter their size.

Steve's breath was even as he ran down the length of the warehouse despite the circumstances, but that didn't mean his heart wasn't racing.

He couldn't see any sign of Rumlow or Tony, but he knew they were here.

As if summoned by Tony's silent voice, Steve stopped running, spinning on his heel and looking up.

Only a few yards away from him was a short staircase that led up to an office of some kind.

The windows were covered with pieces of cardboard, making it impossible to see if Tony was inside, but Steve didn't wait; he set off towards the stairs, taking them two at a time until he was standing just outside the door.

He paused for a brief second and then taking a breath, he kicked the door open, splintering the wood near the lock.

Steve was inside the room a moment later, shield up and ready.

The room was dark and there wasn't much in it, but Steve caught sight of Tony standing with his back pressed to the farthest corner of the room. His face was set into an emotionless mask, but he didn't look like Rumlow had hurt him.

Steve felt some of his tension bleed out of him at the sight of his friend, even if Tony didn't make any indication of seeing Steve.

"Tony?" Steve said quietly, stepping further into the room.

"Watch out!" Tony bit out suddenly, jabbing a finger up.

Steve spun around, catching the brunt of bullet that had been aimed at his chest with his shield.

Rumlow appeared out of the depths of the room, a black mask covering his mouth. He had a matte pistol out and pointing at Steve. The first shot had been a warning; he could have easily aimed for Steve's head.

"Rogers," Rumlow said, voice distorted through the mask. "Long time."

Steve's mouth curled and he didn't reply.

Rumlow shrugged. "Not into having a conversation, eh? That's okay. We'll talk more after Stark finds your pal." Steve couldn't see it, but he imagined a grin stretched out beneath Rumlow's mask. "Ooh, Rogers, the things I'm going to do to your friend. You'll wish I'd killed you first."

Steve's lips pulled back and with a yell he surged forward.

Rumlow danced out of Steve's reach, laughing. It cut off a second later, making a shiver ripple down Steve's spine.

"Or maybe, I'll just kill you now," Rumlow said, and then fired three rapid rounds off.

Steve moved his shield to catch the bullets, listening to them ping against it.

He jerked forward again, leading with his shield. He caught Rumlow against the chest, shoving Rumlow backward until his back thudded into one of the walls. The room shook from the force of the hit.

Steve shifted his shield and in a quick movement, he snapped the edge of it against Rumlow's face.

Rumlow's head snapped back against the wall and one of the straps of his mask broke, letting the mask fall from his mouth to hang at his neck.

He grinned at Steve over the shield, teeth bloody. Steve glared back and then smashed his shield into Rumlow's face again.

This time, Rumlow's eyes dulled from the impact and Steve took a short step back, reaching one hand out to rip the pistol out of Rumlow's grasp. He then tossed his shield to the side and reached out with his newly freed hand to grip the front of the other man's vest, pulling him away from the wall and throwing him across the room, towards the door and where Tony had move to stand silently.

Steve stalked across the room, but Rumlow didn't appear to be a threat anymore. He struggled to h1is knees, mask hanging around his neck leaving his twisted and burned mouth exposed. His lips were flapping as he gasped for breath.

Steve couldn't see exactly where Tony was, but he knew his friend was still in the small room. His main focus had to stay on Rumlow; he had worked with the other man for too long and he knew that, given the chance, Rumlow would stab Steve in the gut if his attention was diverted even for a second.

Steve looked down at Rumlow in disgust. He was almost tempted to let Rumlow suffocate, but he still needed answers, and while Steve might despise the other man, he didn't want to him to die.

"Put your mask on," Steve commanded, voice loud in the sudden silence that had followed their short fight.

The fighting outside the room had died down too, and Steve hoped that meant Sam and Natasha had bested the Winter Soldiers.

Rumlow eyed him and then carefully lifted one hand to bring the black mask up to his lips. He held it with one hand, the broken clasp useless.

Steve held Rumlow's pistol steadily in one hand, keeping it aimed at the other man's head.

"Tony?" Steve called, still not taking his eyes off the kneeling man in front of him. "Are you okay?"

There was a cough and then the scraping sound of shoes against the floor.

"Yeah, I'm okay," Tony said as he moved to stand next to Steve. There was something wrong with his voice. Steve's gut twisted; what had Rumlow done to his friend?

"Tony?" Steve asked, eyes flitting to Tony, who was in his street clothes, rumbled but not stained with blood. "Are you hurt?"

Tony's face pinched and he glanced from Rumlow to Steve, eyes growing dark.

"We need to talk, Steve."

 _Fuck_.

Steve was too late; Rumlow had already told Tony.

Steve swallowed roughly and pulled his gaze from Tony back to Rumlow, trying to control the emotions that were boiling in his chest.

But it was a weak attempt at keeping the truth from Tony.

Tony wasn't stupid and he knew Steve better than a lot of people; he had seen the look on Steve's face, and whatever Rumlow had told him had just been confirmed.

"You _knew?"_ Tony hissed, suddenly in Steve's face, blocking out his view of Rumlow. It was stupid, but Steve was sure that Tony wasn't exactly thinking clearly.

"Tony, get out of the way—we can talk later! Right now we don't have the time," Steve started, trying to shove Tony out of the way, but Tony was past the point of reason, and he didn't shift.

Anger was oozing out of him, but so was betrayal and hurt. It was almost suffocating and there was nothing that Steve could do to stop it. Not yet anyway because a second later, Rumlow made his move, shoving up to his feet and hitting Tony hard in the back.

Tony knocked into Steve and they both stumbled backwards as Rumlow went for a knife that Steve hadn't had the chance to relieve him of.

Tony was still in both of their ways, but Rumlow solved that problem by grabbing a fistful of Tony's shirt and throwing him bodily into the wall.

There was a wild and dark glint in Rumlow's eyes. He was gasping for breath, mask hanging by one strap again, as he came at Steve, who was still trying to regain his balance.

Rumlow threw a leg out, his heavy boot hitting Steve square on the chest.

Steve, already unsteady from Tony, completely lost his balance, falling heavily to the ground. He lost his grip on the pistol, hearing it skitter away, and before he could scramble after it, Rumlow was on top of him.

Still hacking for breath, Rumlow lifted his knife and shoved it down towards Steve's throat, apparently deciding that he wanted to kill Steve now instead of later.

Steve had enough time to widen his eyes, knowing that even he wouldn't be able to survive his throat getting split open.

With a yell, Steve lifted his hand, palm facing up towards Rumlow, catching the knife down the center of his hand.

The pain was hot and fierce, but actually didn't hurt as much as Steve had always thought it would.

Blood, warm and thick, streamed down Steve's hand and wrist, and the knife itself was still embedded through his palm as if it was frozen in place.

Rumlow seemed momentarily surprised, and didn't make a move to pull it out or push it further in.

They stared at each other for a brief moment, and then Rumlow's teeth bared and he leaned his weight onto the knife.

A strangled yell pulled out of Steve's chest as he struggled to hold his hand up, keeping the point of the knife away from his exposed neck.

Abruptly there was a loud bang that echoed throughout the room, deafening in the space.

Rumlow's eyes widened, shock glinting through them. His mouth opened, blood bubbling from his lips and dripping down his chin. His body went limp as the life drained out of him. He swayed for a brief moment before he finally slumped forward onto Steve.

Steve let out a yelp and shoved Rumlow to the side with his free hand, twisting his body as Rumlow fell so that the knife wouldn't tear through his skin anymore.

"Steve!" Tony's voice sounded somewhere over Steve. He appeared a moment later, Rumlow's pistol gripped tightly in his hand. "Are you okay?"

Steve grunted in response, taking his other hand to carefully slide the knife out of his palm. Blood spurted from the wound, making more rivulets drip down his wrist.

He sat up, doing a quick check of the wound. All things considered it wasn't too bad; the cut was clean and it would heal easily, possibly leaving a scar behind, but Steve wasn't sure. He didn't scar easily these days.

He looked up at Tony, who was still hovering over him, and then stood up a second later. He eyed the pistol and then looked back to Tony's face.

Some of the anger had given way to concern for Steve, but Steve knew it was just going to come back after Tony heard the truth.

"Tony," Steve said, cradling his bleeding hand to his chest. "I don't know what Rumlow told you—"

Tony's mouth thinned and his eyes snapped with renewed anger. He shoved away from Steve, pistol still in hand. "He showed me what happened to my parents."

Steve swallowed. "I...I didn't know—"

"Know what?" Tony said, cutting Steve off again. "That your friend killed my parents or that I would find out about it?"

"I didn't know it was him!" Steve said, but the excuse was weak; he had guessed that Bucky had been the one sent to kill the Starks from the moment Zola showed him the newspaper article.

"Bullshit," Tony snapped with a harsh laugh. He shook his head, and his grip on the pistol tightened. "How long did you know? Where you going to tell me?"

"Yes," Steve said immediately. He took a hesitant step towards Tony. "I was just trying to figure out how to."

Tony started pacing. "I think it's pretty simple. Just say 'hey, remember that time when you lost everything? Yeah, that was my friend's fault.' See? Easy."

"Tony—" Steve tried again.

But Tony held up a hand, stopping suddenly and turning to face Steve again. "Where is Bucky?"

Steve frowned. "I don't know."

Tony nodded as if he had expected that. There hadn't been much time to find Bucky between trying to rescue him.

"We're going to find him," Tony said finally. "We're going to find him and he's going to answer for what he did."

Steve shook his head. "Tony—"

"Shut the _fuck_ up, Rogers," Tony hissed, raising the pistol. He froze as he realized what he was doing and then with a disgusted look tossed the pistol aside. It thudded against the wood floor, close to Rumlow's cooling body.

Steve watched Tony carefully, waiting for him to make another move, but Tony didn't move. His chest rose and fell with barely contained emotion.

"Tony. I'm sorry," Steve said, the words tasted like ash in his mouth. They were too late and meant nothing to Tony.

Tony's head whipped up and he glared at Steve, showing him just what he thought of the apology.

He took two steps forward and in one fluid motion brought his white fist up and smashed it into Steve's exposed face.

Steve could have dodged it, but he didn't. He let the knuckles hit his skin. His head jerked to the side as he took the hit silently.

"Motherfucker!" Tony yelped, pulling his hand to his chest.

Steve straightened and eyed Tony's bruised hand; in all likelihood, Tony had just broken the bones in his hand, but Steve didn't say anything or make a move to help.

His lip was split and blood was welling up from the cut, but it wasn't enough, and it sure as hell wasn't going to bring the Starks back from the dead.

Tony's eyes were dark as he looked up from his hand to Steve again.

"I don't care that Bucky Barnes is your friend. We're going to find him and when we do—" he bit off the rest of his words, but Steve could guess the rest.

Steve swallowed roughly and then, without bothering to wait for Tony, he turned on his heel and silently left the room.

.

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A/N: oooh boy. This chapter was a BITCH to write. It just wasn't working and then I apparently forgot how to write and I feel like most of this is absolute garbage. But whatever. Hopefully it's good enough.

Sorry it's late getting posted, but like I said what a hard chapter. I also have a lot of Real Life stuff happening right now and I just didn't have time to work on this.

Also, I know that I killed Rumlow off really quickly even though he was being set up as a main villain, but I just didn't want to deal with him (ha) so bam! he's dead now. Also I'm aware there are more Winter Soldiers, but in my head Rumlow only woke two up because he's stupid. Speaking of him being stupid, I hope it comes across that's he's completely bonkers and wasn't very smart about his entire plan. Because lets face it, he was just asking to be shot in the back. Like only having the two Winter Soldiers at the warehouse? Not smart. Deciding mid-fight to throw out his half-baked plan and just kill Steve instead? Stupid.  
Anyway. That's that.

Lastly, I love all the reviews/follows/favorites. They literally remind me that maybe I'm not a garbage writer and that I should keep working on this. So thank you!


	8. Chapter 8

[8]

It had been a month. A full month since Clint had breathed clean air and felt the actual sun on his skin.

It felt good to say the least, and Clint was soaking up every second of it; he didn't expect it to last longer than the small mission that Fury had given him and Todd Something (he really should learn the guy's name).

The mission wouldn't have even been on Clint's radar back when SHIELD was fully operational; it was too small for an agent of his level, but Clint wasn't going to complain to Fury about it. Not now after being locked in the compound for a month.

The mission was for Clint and Todd to investigate the death of a former SHIELD agent. It was a new type of mission for Clint, but he had the sinking feeling that it wouldn't be the last, not with HYDRA still on the loose.

But Clint didn't care what the mission was because Fury sending him on this mission was a good sign. This meant that Fury trusted him again.

Or maybe it was because the corpse of the dead agent had Clint's name carved into his skin in large blocky letters.

Actually it was probably that, and not the trust thing.

"Focus, Barton," Todd Something hissed next to Clint.

Clint shot him a glare, and then pulled his attention back to the body of their fellow agent that had been left in the alley between two brick buildings.

The agent's body had been dumped into a small town in Wyoming, which meant that the body was the biggest news the town had had in a year. The local law hadn't been pleased when Clint and Todd showed up, flashing their fancy badges and walking into the crime scene. But they hadn't stopped them either.

The body was mostly unmarked, except for Clint's name in his skin and for the bruising around his neck, which suggested that he had been strangled.

Clint didn't recognize the dead agent, but he knew from the file Maria had shoved at him back at the base that the man had been one of SHIELD's tech guys. He wasn't a field agent, and probably hadn't stood a chance against whoever had killed him.

Clint stared down at the body, wondering if he should be feeling something other than curiosity. After all, someone had been killed. Someone had been taken before their time.

But Clint had seen so many dead bodies in worse shape than the one in front of him that he didn't feel very much.

Clint winced and raked a hand through his short hair. He was just full of problems, wasn't he? But that was for another time. He needed to focus.

"Do you know who he is?" Clint asked finally, glancing at Todd.

The other man's mouth was pinched into a thin line as he glared down at the body. His eyes were glued to Clint's name that was etched into the skin, bloody from the knife that had cut the lines.

"No. Do you?" Todd said after a moment. He pulled his gaze from the body and gave Clint a lingering look. "Seems like you did."

"Just because my name is on the body doesn't mean I knew him," Clint said. "No, it's pretty obvious that someone is calling me out."

"Why?" Todd said. "Why would anyone do that?"

Clint shrugged. "Why does anyone do anything? I can't tell you want this guy is thinking, man."

Todd turned to face Clint, arms crossing over his chest. "Alright, then do you have any ideas who?"

Clint toed a loose pebble on the cement, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Well. There was James Abbot from Portland. Something Vanderhill from Wisconsin—he _really_ didn't like me," Clint added with a shake of his head. "It wasn't like I did anything to him—okay, that's not true, but it wasn't like the thing that I did have any lasting effects. He's fine. I think." Clint paused and frowned, trying to think of who else had it out for him. "Hmm...Basically the entire Russian mob is out to get me. Both in New York and in Russia, so it could've been one of them." Clint stopped again, chewing on his bottom lip. His frown deepened. "I mean, HYDRA too, but that goes for any one of us—"

"For fuck's sake, Barton," Todd cut in, throwing his hand up to stall Clint from continuing. "Maybe you should tell me who _isn't_ trying to kill you."

"That would narrow it down," Clint agreed easily, giving Todd a grin.

Todd shook his head. "You should maybe try diplomacy once in a while. Then maybe you wouldn't be in these situations."

"Eh," Clint said, waving a hand. "That's good advice, but not for me."

Todd's eyes narrowed as he stared at Clint; it seemed that he couldn't believe that someone could be so flippant about this type of thing.

"Alright," Todd said finally, stepping away from the body. "There's nothing here. We should get back to Fury and let him know."

"Know what?" Clint said, trailing after Todd. "That we found absolutely nothing? C'mon, man, let's stick around town, see what we can sniff out."

Todd was already shaking his head. He lifted the yellow tape that was cordoning off the alley from the general public, and stepped under it.

Clint followed a second later, nodding his thanks at Todd for holding the tape for him.

"No way, Barton," Todd said, "Fury's orders were clear. We check it out and then get our asses back to base." Todd gave him a knowing look. "He doesn't want you getting your hands on a phone so you can call home."

"Ha ha," Clint said and then added, "But how could I even do that when you're watching me like a hawk?"

Todd's eyes narrowed as if he could tell he was being mocked, but he didn't press the issue.

Clint knew that Todd was fully aware that if he wanted to, Clint could disappear in five seconds flat and there would be nothing that Todd could do to stop him.

But Clint wasn't going anywhere just yet. Not when Bucky was still locked in that fucking cage underground. He had promised Bucky that he would help get him out and he was going to keep his promise.

The local law was standing just outside the tape, watching them impassively through tinted sunglasses.

"All done, boys?" he asked. His hands were clasped in front of him and he was doing a fairly good job at looking intimidating.

"Yep," Clint said, striding forward with his hand outstretched. "Thanks for letting us take a look. We'll let our boss back at HQ know how helpful you were. Actually, can you tell me where you got that impressive cowboy hat? I've been looking for that exact same size—"

The local tightened his grip on Clint's hand, jerking him forward and slapping his other hand down heavily on Clint's shoulder.

"I don't liked to be mocked, boy." The man's hot breath tickled Clint's ear, and even if he couldn't clearly see the man's face, Clint knew the man was glaring at him through his sunglasses.

Clint rapidly shook his head, feeling caged by the other man's broad chest. He pulled back a little, but the man's hands just tightened, holding Clint in place.

"I'm not mocking, sir," Clint said, trying to look earnest. "Really."

"I'm sorry about him," Todd said somewhere behind him. It was easy to hear the disgust lining his voice. "He's new."

The local law grunted and released Clint, giving him a long look.

"Get outta here," he said, chin jerking in the direction of their waiting SUV.

"Yessir," Clint said with a grin, giving him a salute and then promptly dancing out of reach. "C'mon, Todd."

He could hear Todd apologizing again behind him, but Clint didn't care.

What he cared about was the phone clutched in his hand. The sheriff hadn't even noticed when Clint had lifted it off him; he was too busy trying to act tough and show him whose boss.

Which was Lucky for Clint because now he was the owner of a cellphone.

.

.

.

It had been a month since Tony had learned the truth, but despite the time that had passed, Steve didn't think that Tony's anger had lessened. He didn't blame him. Not really.

Losing his own folks had been hard enough, and they hadn't been killed by an assassin. Steve knew that Tony was entitled to his grief.

But even knowing that, Steve wasn't going to stand by and let Tony go after Bucky either.

It wasn't possible that Bucky knew what he was doing when he killed Howard and Maria. Steve _refused_ to believe that any part of the man he knew had been present the Starks had been killed.

Steve tried not to think about what it would mean if Bucky had been aware of what he was doing. He didn't want to face that as a possibility just yet, even if it was a very real one.

When they returned to the Tower after killing Rumlow and his Winter Soldiers, Steve wasn't sure what was going to happen. He almost expected Tony to run off half-cocked into the city, looking for Bucky.

But he didn't. Instead, he locked himself in the lab in the basement and ignored all of them. Steve barely saw him, even when Tony did come up for air once in a while.

The silence in the Tower was deafening, and Steve felt like he was slowly suffocating from all the unspoken words that hung between him and Tony.

Sam had suggested they leave after a week of it, but Steve had refused; he wasn't going to let Tony out of his sight to freely kill Bucky when he eventually found him.

Steve also didn't want Tony to think that he was abandoning him to his lonely Tower with the knowledge of what had truly happened to his parents weighing on his shoulders.

No matter what, Steve was determined not to lose Tony. Not when he had the power to save him; something he hadn't had when he lost Bucky.

"Brooding isn't helping anything, Rogers," Natasha's voice slithering into his ear, startling him. He turned away from the window—there was nothing to see out there anyway—and faced Natasha.

She had stuck around after the Rumlow incident, claiming one level of the Tower for herself. No one dared to bother her when she was holed away in her rooms, but she apparently had no problem popping into the level that Steve and Sam shared.

She raised a delicate eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest.

"With Tony brooding in the basement, and you brooding up here, there isn't space for the rest of us," she added. She paused, cocking her head to the side, and then said in a serious voice. "You need to talk to him, Steve."

Steve's eyes flicked away from hers; he didn't want to see the pitying look on her face. He shoved his hands into his pockets, only to give himself something to do.

"I know."

"If you know, than why haven't you?"

Steve shrugged, but didn't say anything. Talking to Tony seemed easy enough; he was a short elevator ride to the basement, but he might as well have been in another country. The distance between them was stretching thin. It was going to snap soon, but Steve felt like there wasn't anything he could do to stop it.

And anyway, what was he supposed to say?

 _Sorry about not telling you the truth right away? Sorry that my oldest friend killed your parents? Sorry that I was a coward_?

But the truth was, sorry wouldn't be enough because if it came down to it. Not just for what had happened, but because Steve would choose Bucky over Tony. And Tony probably knew it.

"Your silence is riveting, as always," Natasha said, breaking into Steve's morose thoughts. His eyes found hers again, but her sharp green eyes gave nothing away. "But, really, Steve, it's not hard. You need to talk to him before this whole thing blows up in our faces."

Steve let out a humorless laugh. "Didn't it already?"

"No," Natasha said sharply. "If it had, then we would be having a very different conversation."

Steve frowned. "What's that supposed—?"

"It means that the two of you would have torn the Avengers apart."

Steve swallowed, eyeing Natasha, but not seeing any trace of a lie or half-truth on her face. But then again, he usually couldn't tell when she was lying.

"I don't think—," Steve started, but Natasha cut him off again with a shake of her head.

"You don't understand. You two are the reason that the Avengers became a team. You lead us. Without you both at our head, we would cease to exist."

"Natasha..."

"Shut up, Rogers, and listen to what I'm saying," Natasha said. "Get your ass downstairs and fix this. It's been a month. Plenty of time for tempers to cool and brooding to be done."

Steve didn't say anything and neither did Natasha, but she stared him down, waiting for him to break.

He did, a second later, eyes flicking away to the door that led to the elevator.

"Do it now, Steve," Natasha said, stepping out of his way.

Steve's teeth caught his bottom lip and he glared at the doorway.

He took a slow breath and started moving.

.

.

.

Tony was working. Or at least that was what he was telling himself. But in reality, he was just staring at the computer screen. A frozen picture of Bucky Barnes stared back at him.

It was a screenshot from the security camera that had somehow caught and recorded the death of his parents. Tony didn't think too hard about why there was a camera on that lonely road, or why Barnes wasn't wearing a mask.

Instead he focused on Barnes' cold face that stared straight at the camera, pistol gripped in his hand. The image was blurry and there was no color to the video, but there was no mistaking the black pits that were Barnes' eyes, or the way his mouth was a rigid line, showing no remorse whatsoever.

Tony's fingernails dug into the palms of his hands as his fingers curled inward. He could feel blood welling up from his nails, but he didn't care.

Steve had tried to apologize. In fact, he did the moment the truth came out—but it wasn't good enough, and Tony didn't forgive him.

He didn't forgive him for lying right to his face. He didn't—couldn't forgive him for choosing Bucky over him. That shit hurt, but Tony buried it, like he did with everything else.

Tony heaved a breath of air out of his lungs; he hadn't even realized he had been holding his breath.

With a low growl deep in the back of his throat, Tony sat back in his swivel chair, raking a hand through his hair. His nails scraped roughly against his scalp, but Tony ignored that too.

He leaned forward and swiped at the screen, bringing the next image into view.

This one was less menacing, and if Tony was trying to make himself feel something other than anger, this might have done the trick.

It was a famous photo of Steve and Barnes immediately after Steve had rescued the 107th and the rest of the prisoners from the HYDRA prison camp.

Steve was standing there in all his glory, a small smile on his lips, while Barnes stood at his side.

Tony ignored Steve, his full attention on Barnes.

The man looked worn and thin, his green sweater hanging off his frame, making him appear smaller than he probably was. He looked like he might break under the weight of what had happened to him.

Tony wasn't even sure he knew the full story. His dad had only told his version of the events and knowing Howard Stark, it had to be full of exaggerations.

Tony had never really asked Steve what had happened either, and the history books only told the bare minimum. So the reality was, Tony didn't really know what had been done to Barnes or the rest of the prisoners. He could guess, but he didn't really want to.

He shook his head and focused on the picture again.

This version of Barnes wasn't anything like the Winter Soldier that Tony had just been staring at. His edges were ridged and brittle, like the Soldier, but his eyes were full of emotion. Most of it, Tony couldn't place, but even he could see the utter pain brimming up from them. Whether it was physical or mental, Tony couldn't pinpoint.

The longer he stared at Barnes' eyes, the harder it was to look away. The pain that Barnes was emitting was poignant, and Tony could practically feel it oozing out of the image.

He suddenly shook himself, shoving away from the screen. His chair rolled backward a few feet until the picture was too pixelated to see the details.

He didn't give a fuck what 1940's Barnes had been feeling. Why should he?

Tony stood up, stalking across the room to his work table. His mouth was twisted in an attempt to hold his emotions in check.

He plucked up a defective Iron Man glove from the cluttered table and started poking at it, feeling his buzzing anger and pity immediately start to cool.

But in the back of his mind, he could hear Steve's voice ringing with righteous passion:

" _It wasn't him, Tony. He didn't know what he was doing. Bucky...Bucky wasn't himself. Not after what they did to him. Please! You have to listen—"_

That was about the time Tony had shut the door on Steve's face.

At the time, he couldn't process what Steve was trying to tell him, and frankly, he hadn't really wanted to. Even now, with the time to sort through what had happened, Tony still couldn't fully come to terms with any of it.

But the one point that hadn't faded in the days since the truth had come out was the same: Bucky Barnes had killed his parents, and that was all he cared about (it was all he should care about).

There was a hesitant knock at the glass door of Tony's workshop, shattering the peace that Tony had almost found in his tinkering.

He looked up with a glare, catching sight of Steve standing awkwardly at the threshold of the shop.

"Tony," he said, clearing his throat. "Can I come in?"

He shifted awkwardly when Tony didn't say anything right away.

Tony's eyes narrowed, and he started to say no, but then his body didn't cooperate and he gave a nod, followed by an affirmative grunt.

Steve carefully stepped into the white room, his leather boots making soft noises as he strode across the room to stand by Tony.

Tony ignored him and his hovering, pulling his eyes down to the glove. He attempted to keep working on it, but his peace was gone, so he mostly just tapped at the metal.

"What are you working on?" Steve asked after the silence stretched too long.

Tony looked up from the glove, setting it carefully down. "Oh not much."

Steve hummed and stepped away from Tony's shoulder. He looked around the lab, freezing when he saw the glowing screen with the picture of him and Barnes still up.

He crossed the room until he was standing directly in front of the screen. His shoulders hunched, and Tony could see the physical toll the image took on Steve.

Tony wanted to say something, maybe offer some comfort, but he didn't. Instead, he mentally steeled himself and followed Steve across the room. He stood at Steve's shoulder, glancing at the picture and then at Steve's rigid face, but that only made Tony shift uncomfortably. He looked back down to the screen; it was somehow safer to stare at what had been instead of what was.

Neither of them said a word for a long moment, the silence becoming almost unbearable.

"Bucky almost died on the way back, you know," Steve said conversationally.

Tony's eyes snapped from the screen to Steve's profile. He almost laughed and said, _Good. He should have died._ But the words slowed in his throat and then died in his mouth. He swallowed them back down, waiting for Steve to continue.

"We don't fully know what Zola did to him, but Zola had his hands on Bucky for months, and whatever it was...well, I know now that it made Bucky like me. Uh, I guess, not quite like me. But strong enough to survive the fall." Steve's eyes were pinned to the image. His shoulders were tense and his hands were balled into fists at his sides.

"Bucky was the only one that ever survived Zola's treatments, and like I said, he almost didn't. The trip back was rough. We had to walk miles through enemy territory to get back to safety. It wasn't good for him. He was running a fever and he threw up everything I tried to give him to eat. I think he was hallucinating for most of it too."

Steve's words were soft, and despite himself Tony found himself lulled into a dream state; he could see exactly what Steve was describing inside his head. He could see the dark woods filled with tired men just trying to get home. He could see Steve helping Barnes walk along the muddy path—

"We had to hunker down in the middle of a forest somewhere for the night, right after we escaped. I was so glad to see Buck..." he trailed off and cleared his throat. "I was used to Bucky being the strong one—he always was when we were kids—that I figured he'd be alright while I checked on the rest of the men. When I came back to him, he was sitting up against a tree, clutching a rifle and shivering so hard I swear I could hear his teeth clattering." Steve stopped and swallowed. He continued a moment later. "It took me a second to realize he was talking. Just talking to himself, I thought, but when I sat down next to him I could hear what he was saying. It was all sorts of nonsense, fever talk, you know?

"But even then, I still thought that he was okay. Because he was strong. Because he was my best friend who was always in control." Steve shook his head, letting it drop briefly to his chest.

He was silent, and Tony wondered if he would keep going.

"It wasn't until Bucky started throwing up blood that I got the medic, who somehow had a thermometer in his depleted pack. We realized he was running a fever of 104." Steve shrugged. "I almost lost him because I thought he was strong enough to deal with it on his own." He let out a humorless laugh. "Who knows, maybe he wouldn't have died from the fever or the rest of it, but the point is, I was too blind at first too see what was happening." He finally looked at Tony. "I don't want to do that again."

Tony blinked and shifted his weight, understanding in a quick second that Steve was talking about him. When had the conversation gone from Bucky to him?

Steve turned to face Tony. "I care about Bucky. I love him. He's my brother. Do you understand?"

Heat flooded Tony's chest as he thrummed with a sudden anger, but he gave Steve a slight nod.

"But that doesn't mean I can't see how much pain you're in. It's like you've lost your parents all over again, and no matter who killed them, I can't ignore you or your pain," Steve said. He gave Tony a searching look, as if he was looking for a sign that his words were being heard.

Tony took a shuddering breath, pressing his lips together. He gave Steve a slow nod.

"Thank you."

It was left unsaid that Steve would still fight for Bucky, and Tony...hell, Tony didn't know what he would do to Bucky, but it wasn't going to be rainbows and hugs like Steve's reunion was likely to be.

Well, maybe not; Barnes had tried to kill Steve last time they met.

"Alright, Rogers, enough of this. Too many emotions are bad for my health," Tony said, clearing his throat, and stepping back.

Steve's lips twitched. "Does this mean we're speaking again?"

"Did we stop?" Tony said, cocking his head.

Steve's eyes widened. "Are you kidding...?"

"Jeez, Steve, I'm joking. Yes, we're best friends again! Do I need to make you a friendship bracelet to prove it?" Tony said, the light words feeling wrong in his mouth after a month of silence and anger.

"Well, that wouldn't hurt," Steve said, eyes flashing with a sudden humor that Tony rarely saw.

"Was that a joke of your very own?" Tony said, placing a quick hand over his heart. "I didn't know you had it in you."

"Yeah, yeah," Steve said, waving a hand and stepping away from the computer.

Tony offered him a grin, and even though nothing had been settled between them, and they hadn't reached a consensus about Barnes, he felt like he could breathe again.

The anger was still there, just under the surface of his skin, but Tony ignored it (just like everything else).

There was a sudden flurry of movement behind the glance, making both Tony and Steve tense and twist around to face the doorway, but it was just Natasha.

She sauntered across the room in that slow, yet fast way of hers.

A phone was gripped in her hand, and when she stopped in front of them, she raised an eyebrow.

"Did we make up yet?" she asked.

"Yes," Steve said, while Tony tried to think of something sarcastic and flippant to say.

She gave them a nod, a small smile flickering across her lips.

"Good, because we have bigger problems."

Tony doubted that, but focused his attention on Natasha.

She held up the phone. "Clint just text me."

"Clint?" Steve said, straightening. "Is he okay? Where has he been?"

"Birdbrain, eh?" Tony said, settling back against the edge of the desk that held the screen. "I thought he'd built a nest and wasn't ever coming back."

Steve and Natasha both sent him deadpan looks that conveyed their opinion of that particular joke.

Tony raised his hands.

"He's okay, I think," Natasha said a beat later. She frowned. "Or at least, he didn't use our code—"

"Of course, you two have a code for trouble or danger or whatever the hell it is," Tony said with an eye roll.

Natasha ignored him, opening her phone and looking down at it. "He said, and I quote 'sorry for being MIA. Fury has me tied up at his base, but he let me out because I think someone is trying to kill me. Anyway, xoxo.'" She paused, eyeing both Steve and Tony.

Tony frowned. "I don't really know the guy, but doesn't he always talk like that?"

"Yes," Natasha said, looking back to her phone. "There's more. He sent one more text immediately after the first. It says: Also, do you remember Wisconsin? When we went to that college football game in Madison? Their mascot was pretty wild.'"

Tony's mouth popped open and he squinted at Natasha. "Are we 100% sure that Barton isn't high? Like, what the fuck does that mean?"

"Does it even mean anything?" Steve asked with a frown. "Were you two ever in Wisconsin? Or is this some code?"

"It's code," Natasha said, and there was a sudden energy that rippled through her body. Her eyes flicked from Tony to Steve, words on the tip of her tongue.

"Well?" Tony asked when she didn't say anything. "What does it mean?"

"It wasn't a previously decided code," Natasha said carefully, and even Tony could tell that she was stalling. "But Clint always does stuff like this, so it wasn't hard to figure out what he's saying."

"Get on with it, Romanoff," Tony said, snapping his fingers together. He stopped immediately when Natasha shot a glare at him.

"Madison's college football team are called the Wisconsin Badgers," she said slowly. Her mouth pinched and she looked at Steve. "Their mascot is a red badger." She paused again and took a shallow breath. "The mascot's name is Bucky Badger."

The air inside Tony's lungs froze as he stared at Natasha. Her green eyes flicked to him a second later.

"What the _fuck_ does that mean?" Tony hissed, voice lowering.

"It means," Steve said, answering for Natasha, "that Clint knows where Bucky is. It means," his voice hardened, "that _Fury_ knows where Bucky is. Possibly even that Fury is the one that has had Bucky this whole time."

For a moment, it seemed that Steve had forgotten that he and Tony were at odds when it came to Barnes, and the look he sent Tony was all righteous anger and confidence. It was the same look he gave Tony when the two of them were leading their team out in the field. The look that meant he had absolute faith in Tony to help him figure this out so that they would all go home in one piece.

 _Shit_. What was Tony supposed to do with that when all he wanted to do with this knowledge was hunt Fury down and kill Bucky?

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A/N: Surprisingly this chapter was pretty easy to write. So go team I guess.

I don't really have much to say about this one other than I know it gets a little cringy/cheesy when Steve and Tony are talking, but like I hope it's not too bad? I was trying to figure out a way to have them talk and kinda resolve their issues. Anyway, who knows if I succeeded.

Also! Wisconsin really does have a mascot called Bucky Badger and I thought it was kind of a Clint way of letting the team know about Bucky without explicitly saying it.

Thank you for the reviews/follows/favorites!


	9. Chapter 9

[9]

 _Bucky knew the alcohol should be making more of an impact on him, but it wasn't. He was five pints deep on an empty stomach and he couldn't feel a thing. He was trembling with the realization of it; his teeth clenching to keep them from chattering._

 _He was terrified to think that maybe that insane little doctor had managed to do something to him in that POW camp after all, when all he wanted was that nightmare to be over. He thought it had been when Steve had appeared over him in that dark lab._

 _Bucky kept drinking. To prove that nothing had changed, that at any minute the alcohol would hit him and he would be a slobbering mess for Steve to take care of back at the barracks._

" _Easy there, Sarge. You might want to slow down a bit." Dum-Dum's voice grated at Bucky's ears, loud even in the noise of the pub. He winced against it and slouched lower over his drink at the table the Commandos had claimed in the smokey London pub. He raised his head briefly to give Dum-Dum a dark glare._

 _His large friend flinched minutely, but Bucky saw it anyway._

 _Guilt flooded him, but it wasn't enough to make him apologize._

" _Okay, sure," Dum-Dum said after a moment, raising his hands a little and pulling away from Bucky. "Drink yourself to death, pal. Just don't come whining to me when you wake up tomorrow with a hell of a headache." He pointedly looked away from Bucky, hiding his hurt in the stiffness of his large frame._

"' _M not drunk," Bucky huffed out, guiltily ignoring Dum-Dum. "Not even a little." He lifted his pint, hand shaking so hard the amber liquid sloshed out over the rim of the glass, splashing onto the wooden table. Bucky glared at the offending liquid, but the mock anger wasn't enough to chase away his terror._

" _Uh-huh," Flasworth said, eyeing Bucky over the rim of his own glass of beer._

 _Bucky's spine straightened a little and he looked around the table at his friends._

 _The others were watching him with mirrored looks of concern. Their own beer and whiskey was sitting forgotten in front of them in the wake of Bucky's apparent desire to drink himself into a stupor._

 _They thought that he was cracking. They thought that Zola had managed to break him open and hadn't put the pieces back correctly._

 _Well, they were right. Zola had fucked with him too much for him to ever be quite right again, but that wasn't the real problem. The real issue was that Bucky_ _ **knew**_ _it wasn't just the torture or the pain that was rearing its ugly head in his memories. He_ _ **knew**_ _that Zola had succeeded with his insane experiments._

 _But he didn't want to think about that. He roughly shook his head and focused back on the present, but he couldn't stand the looks on his friends' faces._

 _The pity was so thick, he was practically swimming in it. He felt his face hardened into a mask as he looked at them. With their eyes still on him, he took an aggressive drink of his beer, spilling a little down his chin._

 _Slapping the glass down on the table, Bucky winced when he heard a crack, but the others didn't seem to notice._

 _He wiped the back of his hand against his chin, his stubble scratching against his skin._

" _Alright," Gabe said, from his side, "it's time for the Sarge to go back to the barracks." He stood up and moved to stand beside Bucky's chair. He stared down at Bucky until Bucky grudgingly got up._

 _Bucky's knees abruptly buckled, but Gabe's hands were there, catching him and pulling Bucky's arm over his shoulder._

" _I'm_ _ **not**_ _drunk," Bucky insisted, twitching against Gabe's hands. "Git off me."_

" _Come on now, Sarge," Gabe said, ignoring Bucky's complaints, and then looking over his shoulder to the others, he added, "Cap doesn't need to know about this."_

 _Well, that was one thing Bucky agreed with; Steve didn't need to know._

 _He didn't want Steve to know the full truth of what had happened to him. He didn't want_ _ **anyone**_ _to know._

" _Okay," Bucky said as they stepped out into London's crisp night air. "You're all right: I'm drunk."_

" _I know, Sarge," Gabe said, laughing softly as they moved down the dimly lit street._

 _Bucky wanted to cry._

.

.

Bucky's eyes blinked open, fingers twitching as he regained consciousness. Sleep was the only remedy for the boredom of the cage, but even sleep came with its own trials; the memories were proof of that.

They were coming back to him faster and faster now. It was hard not to be overwhelmed by them. Most days, remorse and guilt for what he had done itched in the back of his throat, making it hard to breath.

Every now and then, Bucky wished that Fury had just left him back at the HYDRA base with a bullet in his head. At least then this would all be over.

But Bucky had the feeling that this, whatever this was, was only just beginning.

On the days after his mind filled up on new (or old) memories from his past, Bucky wouldn't move from his cot. He would lay there and wish that HYRDA's drugs still pumped through his veins, chasing away anything that wasn't mission critical in his brain.

But then Clint would show up (somehow he had become Clint and not Barton). Over the course of the passing weeks, Clint had stolen an armchair from somewhere and dragged it down to the basement, shoving it close to the glass of Bucky's cage.

He then would sit in his chair in silence while he waited for Bucky to speak first. He would just sit with that damn look in his eyes. As if he knew exactly what Bucky was feeling, as if he had through something like it too.

Bucky appreciated his silence, which would break the second Bucky said something himself, after that Clint usually didn't shut up. While it was annoying, it also meant that Bucky didn't have to do anything other than listen.

Clint had been his only visitor for a while. Fury and Hill both hadn't come down since they had pulled Clint from the basement the first time. It had been a whole month, according to Clint, since that day.

It made Bucky nervous. A man like Fury didn't just forget about things. Especially not weapons, and there was no denying that Bucky was anything but a weapon.

Bucky sat up on his cot, raking both hands through his sweat soaked hair. He peeled off his grey shirt, also damp with sweat, and tossed it to the corner of the room.

His bare skin rippled with goosebumps, a human reaction for his inhuman actions.

Bucky stared out through the glass, waiting for Clint too appear with his cup of coffee.

Most mornings Clint would saunter in, paperback novel tucked under one arm. He would read until Bucky was ready to start speaking. Bucky was loath to admit it, but Clint had become a person that he relied on. He had become a friend.

Bucky shivered and waited for Clint to show up. But he didn't.

Unease curled in his stomach, but Bucky pushed it aside. Fury wouldn't do anything to Clint, and the compound was too concealed and well-guarded for anyone to have attacked it.

He stood up and crossed the room to his sink. He eyed it with distaste, but proceeded to use it to wash his face and the rest of his exposed skin.

The lack of proper facilities was starting to really annoy him. If he didn't get a shower soon, there was going to be blood spilled.

He changed into a clean shirt and started to pace the length of his cage; too wound up for any type of exercise.

Clint had, at one point, tried to sneak weights down to the basement with hopes of somehow getting them into the cage for Bucky to use.

He had failed spectacularly, and even Bucky had a hard time keeping a straight face while the SHIELD agents had yelled at Clint while they dragged each piece of the stolen equipment back upstairs to where it belonged.

An estimated hour ticked up, and Clint still hadn't appeared. Bucky's pacing had increased and his unease was making way for worry.

He hated that in the space of a month, Fury had gotten him to rely on another person. Both Clint and Bucky had realized that was what he was doing, but they were both starved for human interaction that they hadn't cared. Now, Bucky was cursing himself for being so stupid.

The doors clanked open, and Bucky froze, turning to face the person. He was ready with a particularly dark glare, expecting apologies and excuses to be spilling from Clint, but it wasn't his friend walking towards the cage.

Fury sauntered across the space with a smug smile on his lips. He gave Bucky's suddenly emotionless face a knowing look.

"Not who you were expecting?"

Bucky didn't bother to answer. This was it. This was finally the moment that Fury would reveal his plan to use Bucky.

Bucky's hands clenched at his sides. _Damn Fury_.

"Agent Barton is topside," Fury said, casually crossing his arms over his leather jacket. "We believe his life is being threatened by an unknown assailant."

Bucky frowned; that wasn't quite what he was expecting from Fury.

"And until Barton finds the threat and kills him, this man will continue to kill SHIELD agents in Barton's place." Fury paused. "We only have one body at the moment, but I've seen this before. The bodies will continue to pile up until the assailant gets what he wants or is killed."

"So your plan is to send Barton out into the civilian world until either he dies or your killer does? Why isn't Barton protected somewhere here in your compound?" Bucky mentally winced; he was saying too much.

Fury shrugged. "He's not alone. Agent Morris is with him and is reporting back to me."

Agent Morris? Bucky didn't recognize the name from what Clint had told him about his fellow agents.

Fury eyed him, and when he didn't see any sign of understanding, sighed. "Todd. Agent Todd Morris."

Bucky immediately snorted. "Todd? He's a fucking moron. Incompetent too."

Fury gave him a look. "You've been talking to Barton for too long; he's starting to rub off on you. Todd is not incompetent. He's a damn fine agent. Just because Barton doesn't like him, doesn't mean he's a moron."

Bucky shrugged; he couldn't really say one way or another, but from what Clint told him, Todd was definitely a moron.

He eyed Fury, pulling his focus back to the man. They were exchanging small talk; Fury was giving them common ground before he got to the real reason he was here. It was pissing Bucky off.

"Just get on with it," Bucky said abruptly.

Fury raised his eyebrow, but didn't say anything.

"Ask me what you came down here for."

Fury's lips remained infuriatingly tight, but Bucky didn't let his anger slip through his mask. All of this was to show him who was in control, but Bucky wouldn't give him the satisfaction of an emotionally response.

"I'm offering you that freedom we talked about," Fury finally said after the silence stretched thin.

Bucky's eyes narrowed. "And?"

Fury's lips twitched. "I'll let you out to help Clint—I'm not lying about the threat. His life really is in danger."

"So give him some help!" Bucky snapped, slapping his flesh hand against the glass. It tingled from the impact, and while Bucky regretted the show of emotion, he didn't regret the way that Fury flinched away. "Someone who isn't Todd."

"Someone like you?" Fury asked pointedly. "No one is as good as you. Clint deserves help from the best. He's been let down one too many times by his friends."

Bucky could literally taste the manipulation that Fury was dishing on his tongue; Fury was hardly being subtle about it, but he didn't care. Clint was his friend. The only person he cared about in this whole damn compound.

"And?" Bucky repeated with a low growl in the back of his throat. "What do I need to do? You're not going to just let me loose."

Fury nodded. "A tracker will be put in you." He didn't elaborate where. "And an explosive device that will go off if you try to run or try to remove either. Believe me when I say that I will not hesitate to use it."

It seemed crude, too extreme for all the time Fury had put into Bucky, but Bucky was sure this was only the surface of what Fury had planned. Step by step, Fury would slowly ensnare Bucky in a web so thick, he wouldn't be able to get away.

But Clint had promised him escape and help. This new obstacle would be a challenge, but they would figure it out.

The important part was making sure Clint made it back alive, and frankly Bucky was so fucking sick of being locked up.

His lungs were screaming for clean air and his fingers itched for action.

Freedom from the cage gave him more options, and a possible escape sooner than anticipated.

Or maybe those were just lies he was telling himself to give him an excuse to go against his better judgement and save his friend.

Yeah, that was probably it.

Bucky's eyes found Fury again, who seemed to already know that he had won if the small smile on his lips was any indication.

"I'll do it," Bucky said, tasting freedom on his tongue, but feeling the heavy chains of the promise his wrists.

.

.

"Not so fast, Barton," Todd said, hand going out to snag Clint's arm, halting him in his tracks.

Clint eyed the hand and then gave Todd a dark look.

Todd quickly dropped Clint's arm. Clearly, he valued his life. Smart man.

"What?" Clint said. He crossed his arms over his chest, not bothering to try and make another escape; Todd would only follow him, pestering him until he complied with whatever it was that he wanted.

They were still on the ground level of Fury's compound. It was outwardly an office space, just in case, and a couple of Fury's tech teams were working at various computers throughout the space, completely ignoring Todd and Clint.

Clint had to admit that Fury had put his compound together quickly and effectively. The place felt almost exactly like SHIELD, albeit a much smaller version of the D.C. base.

"What, Todd?" Clint repeated, eyes flicking down the hall to where the stairwell was located. His bed was only a level down; so close, yet so far. _Damn you, Todd._

"Fury wants to see you," Todd said. He jerked his chin to the left; Clint hadn't been to Fury's office yet, which was a bit of a record for him.

"Great," Clint said, head bobbing a nod. "See you around." He turned on his heel, leaving Todd behind without another word. He could hear Todd sputtering out mangled sentences about respect or some shit, but the other man didn't try to stop him.

The cellphone he had stolen was burning a hole in his pocket, but his jacket was bulky enough that the slim phone wasn't noticeable. Clint was almost positive that Todd wasn't aware that he had sent a text to Natasha before they had left the crime scene. It had been brief and vague, but Clint knew that Nat would figure it out and come.

Fury's door was closed when Clint reached the end of the hall Todd had indicated. It didn't have a name plaque, but that wasn't really Fury's style. He raised his hand and rapped his knuckles against the dark wood.

Fury's voice came through the door a brief second later. "Enter."

Clint took a breath and shoved open the door. He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

He stood at attention, eyes somewhere over Fury's dark head. "Sir?"

Fury was at his desk, laptop and files spread on the surface in front of him. He looked up, focusing on Clint.

"Barton. Good." He waved a hand to the single chair that sat a little in front of the desk.

Clint's skin prickled under Fury's silent gaze, but he didn't look away, keeping his face carefully blank. He couldn't let anything slip through; if Fury knew that Clint had told Natasha that the Winter Soldier was currently cooling his heels in the basement there was no telling what Fury would do.

"Agent Morris—," Fury started.

"Who?" Clint interjected with a frown.

Fury stared at Clint with more annoyance than Clint thought was necessary. It's not like he had been told who Agent Morris was before.

"Todd Morris," Fury said slowly.

"Oh, him," Clint said, settling back into the chair. It wasn't very comfortable, but that was probably deliberate.

"Morris sent me his briefing from the scene. He believes someone is trying to get your attention—,"

"Had to think really hard about to figure that out, did he?" Clint said, rolling his eyes. "What gave it away? My name on the dead agent's name?"

Fury ignored this.

"He said you have too many enemies to have any solid idea of who might be doing this."

Clint shrugged modestly.

Fury pinned him with a look. He leaned forward on his desk, elbows digging into the surface.

"Tell me what you didn't tell Morris."

Clint knew an order when he heard one. He sat up, spine straightening in response to Fury's sharp tone.

"I have an idea, sir," Clint said. He didn't wait for any prompting from Fury before he continued. "This person obviously knows his victims are SHIELD—not especially hard to figure out after Natasha put everything online, but the choice to kill agents makes me think that we're dealing with HYDRA. I'm sure I've caused many, many HYDRA agents to develop a grudge against me, but the most recent and the most personal would be my last handler: Agent Weston."

"He tried to kill you after HYDRA's takeover in D.C." Fury said. It wasn't really a question; Clint had already told him about that.

Clint nodded. "Obviously, he didn't succeed. I left him alive and probably humiliated in a car in the middle of the desert."

"You think he's trying to finish his mission?"

"Possibly. I didn't think I pissed him off that much, but who knows with these HYDRA goons."

Clint thought back to the little Bucky had told him about his time with HYDRA. None of it had been good. But the fact remained that they were capable of almost anything when it came to their agenda, or pride if Weston's actions were any clue.

As far as his old handler went, Clint doubted he was still part of HYDRA in any official way; although he couldn't be sure. No, what Weston was after was more personal.

He kept his thoughts to himself, focusing back on Fury.

"So what do you want to do about this?" Fury asked after a moment.

Clint appreciated Fury's apparent trust in him to handle this himself, but it felt bittersweet after the lack of trust for the past month. But then the cellphone dug into Clint, and he supposed Fury's distrust was warranted.

"I want to go back out there. Use myself as bait and catch the bad guy before he gets me," Clint said immediately.

Fury frowned. "Are you sure? What about backup? He might just take a shot at you from a distance and be done with it."

Clint was already shaking his head. "No, he wouldn't do that. This is too personal for him. He took the time to track down a SHIELD agent and kill him, all to tell me that he's coming and he's pissed. Nah, when he comes to kill me, it'll be up close and personal."

Fury nodded. "Alright. Backup?" he repeated.

Clint shrugged. "Not Morris. Sure would like Natasha, but from what I understand she's out of your game."

Fury made a noncommittal noise and his face gave nothing away. That's what concerned Clint the most; he had gotten good at reading Fury over the years and his gut was telling him Fury was hiding something that pertained to this mission.

But Clint knew it was useless to ask, so he pushed that aside for now. He would figure it out eventually, or Fury would tell him when he thought it mattered.

"I don't need backup," Clint said after a long beat of silence. "If that's all, I'd like to get some food and maybe some sleep."

Fury nodded and waved his hand.

Clint stood up, pausing just by the doorway, giving Fury one last look, but Fury's focus was back on his laptop and files, a frown appearing over his eye.

Clint's lips thinned, but he turned on his heel, leaving the office.

He was tired; it had been a long day—night was rapidly giving way to a new dawn—but he knew that Bucky would be wondering where he had been all day and most of the night.

Everything was an unfocused blur as Clint rode the elevator down four levels to the basement. He didn't bother trying to sneak anymore; Fury knew, so what was the point?

Clint rubbed his gritty eyes with a hand as he entered the warehouse-like room where Bucky's cage was. He needed to touch base with Bucky and then get topside again so he could deal with Weston, and then hopefully get another chance to talk to Natasha. He figured she would maybe like a few more details about the situation, especially after he dropped the Bucky bomb on her.

He had complete confidence that Natasha would track him down eventually, but time was essential, so they might as well not mess about with their normal spy vagueness.

"Hey, Bucky, sorry that I disappeared off the face of the earth, but you know how it is—"

Clint cut himself off abruptly as he neared the cage and realized he was speaking to an empty room.

He jerked forward, pressing up against the glass for any indication of what had happened to Bucky.

The cot was rolled up neatly on the frame of the bed and...that was it. Nothing else remained in the room. There was no sign of a struggle, but that didn't mean much. Fury could have gassed the room and knocked Bucky out to make transporting him easier.

Clint didn't even entertain the idea that Bucky went willingly; they had both agreed that at some point they would get their chance at an escape because it would come eventually—and it had; Clint had a cellphone now.

With a low growl, Clint pushed off from the glass, turning sharply and stalking back the way he had come.

Fury had sent Clint on a mission and then took Bucky while Clint's back was turned.

 _Bastard._

Clint was done being treated like a misbehaving child. He was done with being left in the dark. He would be done with Fury and SHIELD too if he didn't get some damn answers.

.

.

"How the hell are we supposed to find them?" Steve asked, leaning over Natasha's shoulder for the tenth time in a matter of minutes.

Her fingers paused over the keyboard, back stiffening. She turned slowly in her chair, pinning Steve with a look he was very familiar with, usually not directed at him. It promised an immediate death if she wasn't given space.

He quickly backed up; he might be running on coffee and anger, but he wasn't suicidal.

"Sorry," he offered after a beat.

Natasha arched an eyebrow in response and then turned back to the computer.

Steve eyed her back for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip.

He felt completely useless, and the anger that was close to the surface these days, bubbled uneasily.

All this time, Bucky was close—maybe even in the States—and Fury was the one who had him. Maybe he hadn't had Bucky since D.C. but Fury had him and he hadn't bothered to tell Steve.

The idea of what Fury might be doing or using Bucky for made Steve's throat convulse with suppressed anger. He knew that Fury wasn't stupid, and he definitely wouldn't leave a threat like Bucky alive. If it wasn't for Clint's cryptic text, Steve might have thought that Fury would have killed Bucky and been done with it.

While the fact that Bucky was still alive filled Steve with a wobbly relief, he still didn't know what Bucky was being used for, and that was an unsettling feeling.

Steve's hands clenched and his teeth clicked together. He turned away from Natasha, not wanting to simply hover and wait until she found something.

Tony was in the corner of the lab, sitting on one of his high stools with his arms crossed over his chest. His mouth was pinched, but that was the only emotion he was showing.

Steve felt his stomach tighten as he looked at his friend. For a moment, when Clint's texts first came through, Steve felt like he and Tony had come to an understanding and that they were finally on the same team again. It had felt like the fracture between them was starting to heal.

But looking at Tony now, all of those emotions were turning to ash.

Tony wasn't going to stand by and let Steve rescue Bucky without any consequences.

Steve shifted, eyes meeting Sam's across the room.

There was a knowing look on Sam's face, and Steve could see that Sam would follow his lead in a heartbeat, even if that meant going against Tony.

Steve raked both hands down his face. He was so tired of this. Every other second they danced from allies to enemies, with Tony always on the opposite side.

"Anything?" Steve asked, voice muffled as his hands dropped down his face, brushing across his mouth.

"No, Rogers, just like the 20 other times you've asked." The reply was terse, and Steve knew he was getting on Natasha's nerves, but he felt a prickle of annoyance ripple across his skin in response to her.

He shook his head, moving away from her.

He wanted to move—to do something; he _needed_ to do something.

He wasn't much for sitting around. Never had been. Even when he had been a kid, Steve couldn't sit still. It had gotten him into trouble more than once, but Bucky had always been there to help get him out of it.

Sam paced across the room, stopping next to Steve. He looked at Tony and then shifted closer to Steve.

"We need to talk about what we're going to do when we find him," Sam said quietly.

Steve frowned, glancing sharply at Sam.

Sam didn't even blink. "All I'm saying is, we have no idea what shape Bucky is going to be in. Fury might have been keeping him fed, clothed, and all the rest, but mentally? There's no telling where he'll be at. Last time we saw him, he put you in the hospital."

"I'm not leaving him again," Steve said harshly, voice low. The words were familiar on his tongue; they already had this conversation, before the helicarriers crashed.

"I'm not ask you to," Sam said. "All I'm saying is you have to have a plan. We can't just waltz in there and expect him to follow you out without trying to put a knife into your back."

Words of Bucky's loyalty bubbled up, but Steve stopped them in his mouth; he knew what Sam was saying, but it that didn't make it hurt any less.

"I'll figure something out," Steve said after a moment.

"Good," Sam said with a nod. "Now, what about Tony? You know he's not going to sit back—"

"I know," Steve said, cutting Sam off. "But we can't leave him here either. He'll just follow us. It would be better to have him with us, in our line of sight."

"That's a powder keg, waiting to explode," Sam said frown appearing on his face.

Steve gave him a grim nod; he knew that, but there wasn't time to convince Tony of anything, and if Steve wasn't there to hold Tony back, there was no telling what he would do when he came face to face with Bucky.

.

.

A/N: Okay, so wow. Sorry for disappearing for like 3 weeks. It's been a hell of a time for me in my RL right now _and_ my computer broke and it took a long time to get it fixed, but hey I'm back now.

I wrote most of this by hand while my computer was out of commission, and I just...don't love this chapter. I mean, I'm mostly good with it, but I don't love it. Anyway. Hopefully, you guys like it!

As always, I'm so thankful for the reviews, favorites, follows!


	10. Chapter 10

[10]

"Hey, Barton, slow down—hey, I mean it!" Maria's voice snapped out from behind Clint, but he didn't spare her a glance. His focus was completely on getting back to Fury and demanding to know where Bucky was.

He felt her make a grab for his arm, but he evaded her hand easily.

He didn't have time to deal with Maria; who knew how long Bucky had been gone from the cage. Clint didn't know for sure what Fury's plans were for Bucky, but he knew that Fury wouldn't have wasted anytime enacting them.

"You can't just barge in Fury's office. He doesn't have the time to see you right now," Maria tried again, trotting to keep pace with Clint as he stalked up the stairs; the elevator was too slow for him.

"Barton—Clint, you can't go in there demanding to know answers! You're not going to get any."

Clint paused on the 3rd level's landing; it was the use of his first name that finally did it. Maria never called him Clint. She didn't like to get too personal with her subordinates.

He could feel her hovering behind him, but he didn't turn around.

His whole body was tingling with barely contained emotion. It wasn't the lack of sleep that was making him irrational; he was a sniper for fuck's sake. Snipers were trained to run on no sleep for more than 48 hours; this was nothing compared to his training and his actual fieldwork.

It was the lack of trust that was finally getting to him. He had thought that Fury was bringing him back into the fold; that he was going to be part of a team again.

Instead all he had been given was suspicious. He had been pushed to the side by a man that he had trusted more than almost anyone. Initially, Clint knew that Fury had his reasons; he had never expected to be told the full truth of anything, but he hadn't expected to be treated like a green agent who had no experience in the field or with keeping his mouth shut. It brought back memories of when he had first met Fury and when he joined SHIELD.

"Clint..." Maria's voice floated into Clint's ear and he flickered back into the present moment.

He turned slowly on his heel, boots grinding against the cement landing.

Maria's normally stoic face was buzzing with an array of emotions. Sympathy and pity were at the forefront of her eyes. She reached a hesitant hand out to touch him and offer him support, but he slid back before she could.

Her hand dropped back down to her side and a mask slammed back into place. Her arms crossed over her chest and she eyed him, chin going up and down.

"You look like shit. You should be in your bunk sleeping off your mission, so that you'll be ready for your next one."

"I don't need sleep," Clint said roughly. "I need answers."

"He's not going to give you any."

"Yes he will."

Maria shook her head, but didn't try arguing again.

Clint snorted, head shaking briefly. "You know what's going on." It wasn't a question. "Hill, you need to tell me where the fuck Barnes is or—"

"Or what?" Maria cut in. "Don't threaten me, Barton, you know how fast I can have you locked up until you calm down."

"You could try."

They glared at each other until Maria blinked and took a step back, creating space for their rising tempers.

"He's fine," Maria finally said. "Your friend, Barnes? He's fine. Fury worked out a deal with him."

Clint's lips tightened. He didn't think that Maria would actually tell him; he had expected to have to go straight to Fury and not move until he was given what he wanted. The fact that Maria had broken so quickly meant that she was trying to distract him from his goal; she wanted to keep him away from Fury.

"Liar," Clint said voice shimmering with cold anger. He turned and started jogging up the stairs again, heading for the second level.

He could hear a muffled swearword from Maria and then her footsteps as she hurried to keep up.

"I'm not lying."

"Bucky wouldn't just cave. Not after holding out for more than a month. He was trained—tortured by HYDRA. He's the best," Clint shot back, not slowing.

"Barton, stop," Maria tried again, but that was only going to work once, and they both knew it.

He heard her boots stop and he had gone four more steps when she said, "Fuck it. I'll tell you the truth."

He slowed to a stop, turning around and looking down at Maria. One of her hands was gripping the railing, knuckles white. Her face was conflicted, and for the first time, Clint thought that she actually might tell him the truth of what was going on.

He waited on his step, not saying anything. This was her last chance; he wasn't going to stop again.

"I wasn't lying before. Barnes made a deal with Fury."

Clint's eyes narrowed, and his legs tensed as he got ready to leave again.

"Hold up, I'm not done," Maria said, sensing his impending exit. "Just think for a second, Barton. You said he wouldn't break, and you're right. Nothing would break that man. We all knew it. Fury even knew it, but he had a different plan. One that he created the second you found the cage."

Clint squeezed his eyes shut briefly. He had known that Fury had let him back into the basement too easily. He had known it from the very beginning, and yet the idea that Fury had been planning something for him still came as a knife in the gut.

"He's using me, isn't he?" Clint said through clenched teeth. "He told Bucky that I needed help, and in order to help me, Bucky had to promise Fury some fucked up contract."

Maria didn't answer, but Clint knew he was right; he could see it on her face.

"Bucky, you fucking idiot," Clint muttered, letting his head drop. "Where he is?"

"I'm not supposed—"

"Shit, Hill, you weren't supposed to say anything about anything. Just fucking tell me where he is!"

Maria chewed on her lip, staring up at him.

"3rd level. Medical."

Clint's eyes narrowed at her, looking for a lie, but there was none. He started back the way he had come; she _had_ been trying to distract him, but not just from Fury.

He brushed past her without another word.

She didn't try to follow him again, staying behind on the landing with a pinched look on her face.

He knew that she didn't see this side of him often. He rarely let his fellow agents know just how unhinged he could be if he let his true feelings out to the surface.

It was disconcerting enough to throw Maria off balance and spill what he wanted.

Or maybe she just pitied him.

Or more likely, there was nothing he could do now, and the most he would be able to do was watch as Bucky was forced to work for another shadowy organization against his will.

.

.

Bucky gingerly prodded at the skin at his neck. It was smooth under his fingertips, but Bucky was certain that Fury had his doctors put one of the trackers, or possibly the explosive device, in his neck; that's where HYDRA would have put it.

He had been unconscious when they put the trackers in. It wasn't just the one, like Fury had said; knowing Fury, Bucky figured that they would have put multiple in. It would take him some time before he could find them all and get them out, and he wouldn't put it past Fury to keep putting more on him when he wasn't looking.

But that was the price he was willing to pay to get free of that damn cage.

"The doctors said to not irritate the skin," Fury said, appearing the doorway of the small hospital-like room. He was dark against the white of the walls, standing just inside the doorway as he eyed Bucky lying on the cot.

Bucky could see his eye flick to where his metal arm was lying useless on the mattress next to his body; the doctors had disengaged it somehow when they had knocked him out for the procedure. He wasn't sure how they had done it, and he couldn't remember if HYDRA had ever done the same, but even with the constant memories flooding his mind he couldn't quite grasp the images of everything that had been done to him.

"What time is it?" Bucky asked hoarsely, letting his flesh hand drop down to his lap. There was a uselessly thin blanket that covered half his body, making him feel like his legs were trapped beneath it.

Fury offered him half a shrug. "Early."

Bucky frowned. "Where's Clint?"

"I'm sure he's on his way," Fury said. "I told Maria to hold him off, if she could, but it wouldn't have been for long. I debriefed him fifteen minutes ago, but his next stop would have been to the basement to check on you." He gave Bucky a long look, and Bucky could see the questions hovering just behind his tongue.

Even with the cameras that had always been watching Clint and Bucky in the basement, it seemed that Fury wasn't quite sure how they had become friends.

Hell, Bucky wasn't even sure how it had happened.

It had been so long since he had anyone that he cared about (he refused to even think about Steve—the old Bucky was gone, and he didn't want Steve to know the new Bucky. Not yet), but somehow Clint had wormed his way into Bucky's life. As the days went by, Bucky had let himself unfreeze just a little more, feeling himself take back control of his human self.

Clint was his friend, and Bucky wasn't going to just stand by and let Clint get killed by some nutcase if he could help it.

"So what happens now," Bucky asked, sitting up on the cot. His head swam a little, but he ignored it, eyeing his flesh arm. He twitched his hand, flicking at the IV tubes that were poking into his skin.

"Now," Fury said, striding further into the room, "we wait for Clint, and hope he doesn't need to be restrained." He glanced behind him, through the doorway, and nodded to himself as if everything was falling into place just like he planned. It probably was, if Bucky was being honest.

Bucky tilted his head to the side, listening. A second later he heard the commotion down the hall. Clint's voice was lost in the sea of protests from the medical team, but Bucky knew his friend was out there.

Fury and Bucky waited in almost companionable silence for Clint to make his way through the few agents and doctors that attempted to stop him from coming into Bucky's room.

It didn't take him long.

Bucky and Fury watched as Clint skidded past the doorway and then a second later, barreled into the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

He pressed his back to the wooden door. "Fucking doctors."

Bucky's lips twitched, but his almost-smile faded away as Clint's face morphed into stone when he looked further into the room and saw Fury standing near Bucky's cot.

Clint's eyes flicked to Bucky, practically unreadable. He gave Bucky a microscopic nod, but Bucky wasn't sure what that meant.

"You could have told me what you were planning when I was in your office twenty minutes ago," Clint said to Fury, turning his eyes from Bucky to his commanding officer.

Fury shrugged, but didn't bother to give him an explanation, and Clint's eyes narrowed.

"Really, Fury? I thought we were past this shit. I thought you trusted me again!"

"I do trust you—"

"Bullshit."

"—but you've always been prone to make rash decisions when faced with the people you care about." Fury eyed him. "Don't bother to deny that you and Barnes aren't friends. We both know that's a lie."

It was making Bucky's skin crawl to think that the friendship, something so foreign to this version of himself, was being twisted by Fury to suit his own agenda.

For the first time, Bucky was thankful that Steve and the Howling Commandos never found him. If they had, HYDRA would have just taken them and used them against Bucky. They would have become a new way to torture him.

"So tell me now," Clint said, pushing off from the door. "Tell me what the fuck is going on."

Bucky was finished being the bystander in the conversation. His back straightened and he kicked at the blanket over his legs, freeing them. His bare feet hit the tile floor, sending a quick shiver up his spine.

Standing up, Bucky let his metal arm hang uselessly at his side, body tilting unconsciously to compensate for the weight of the arm.

Fury and Clint's eyes flicked to him, bringing him into their argument for the first time.

"I'm out of the cage to help you," Bucky said. "You've got someone on your tail and you need backup." He paused. "I'm your backup."

Clint was already shaking his head. "No way."

"It was my choice," Bucky said before Clint even finished speaking.

" _Bullshit_ ," Clint repeated, venom in his voice.

"It's the truth," Fury said, not cowed by the look that Clint sent him.

"Nah, I know you, Fury," Clint said, jabbing a finger at Fury. "I know how you work. This wasn't Bucky's choice. You backed him into a corner—"

"You need help, Agent Barton," Fury said, squaring off with Clint. "Your first choice of backup isn't here, so I got you someone else."

Clint didn't speak, eyes locked onto Fury's impassive face. Bucky couldn't read what was going on behind Clint's mask, but he knew that Clint was struggling between feeling grateful and probably wishing that there was another way. If they had more time, there probably would have been another way.

Clint broke first, jerking away from Fury and bringing up both his hands to rake through his short hair. He tugged on the ends of his blonde strands, hard enough that Bucky could see the minimal wince that flickered across Clint's face.

He turned, facing the door as if he was going to stalk out of the room, but he didn't move. His shoulders moved up and down as he sucked in harsh breaths of air.

"You done?" Fury asked after a moment of silence. "I can't have you breaking down now, Agent Barton. We've got a killer on your tail and the only way we're going to get him is if we get our heads completely into the game. Can I trust you to do that?"

Clint snorted. "Trust?" his voice floated over his shoulder. "I thought we established that I _can't_ be trusted?"

Bucky could hear the pain in Clint's voice; the hurt ran a lot deeper than Bucky thought, and it wasn't just about Fury. There was something else that Clint hadn't told him.

Fury sighed. "Stop. We don't have time for this, Barton. Pull it together, or I'm benching you."

Clint turned around again, a slight sneer on his face. It disappeared just as quickly. "You can't. Too many lives are on the line if you do."

Fury opened his mouth to argue, but Clint held him off, adding, "Yeah, I'm good. What's the plan?"

Fury eyed him again, before turning to include Bucky.

"You said it yourself, Barton, you're the bait, and now I've got you backup."

.

.

Fury left an hour later, leaving Clint and Bucky alone in the recovery room.

Bucky couldn't get a read on Clint; the other man was silent and stoic in a way that Bucky hadn't seen before.

"You didn't have to do this," Clint said suddenly, turning to face Bucky. "We had a plan. An opportunity would have come along, and we would have gotten you out."

Bucky shrugged. "Not quick enough. You've got this Weston man on your ass."

Clint's eyes darted around the room, checking for what Bucky assumed was cameras or listening devices. It would make sense for Fury to have had some put in the room that Bucky was in, just in case he got any ideas about escaping.

Clint looked back to Bucky; it was clear that he had something to say, but he didn't think it was safe to speak freely.

The frown that had been on his face since Fury had left, deepened. He shook his head and then nodded at Bucky's limp metal arm.

"You need help with that?"

"I don't think you can—"

"Shuddup and let me look," Clint said, waving a hand and cutting Bucky off. He strode forward, poking at the metal arm as if he expected it to spring to life and choke him to death. He poked it another two times and then cleared his throat. "It appears I haven't become an expert in how mechanical arms work. It seems like the thing has been turned off. Maybe there's an 'on' switch somewhere..." He ducked lower, trailing off and squinting to get a better look at the dark metal.

"The thing?" Bucky asked with a snort, doing his best not to look too closely at what Clint was doing.

Clint looked up with a glare, but it didn't have any real heat behind it; it seemed that he had used that all up on Fury.

"Do you want this fixed or not?" Clint said.

"Sure. But I don't think you can fix it," Bucky said lightly. He glanced away from where Clint's fingers were digging into his unfeeling arm.

His flesh arm, still full of the IV tubes, trembled faintly, and he could feel the cords in his neck standing out as he tried in vain to relax, but decades of scientists "fixing" his arm had broken him in more ways than he could count, and it wasn't so easy to simply calm down just because his head was telling his body to do so.

His eyes were fixed somewhere near the door, but he was _not_ determining the best way to escape because Clint was an ally and a friend; he wasn't going to take away Bucky's humanity like HYDRA had.

"Hey." Clint's face swam into view as he popped up from his hunched position. He took a few steps back, wordlessly giving Bucky the space he craved. "Sorry. I didn't realize."

Bucky forced himself to shrug, slowly relaxing the muscles on his flesh arm and neck. It took longer than he would have liked: five seconds, but when his body was no longer tensed and ready to fly out of the room, he looked more fully at Clint.

"Not your fault."

"No, but I should have been thinking," Clint said, palm of his hand going up to smack against the side of his head. It wasn't a hard hit, but Bucky still flinched at the sound. Clint didn't seem to notice. "I've been there. I know what it's like...probably not to the same extent as you, but I _know_."

Bucky didn't want to think about what Clint was implying; he wouldn't wish what had happened to him on anyone, expect maybe the men and women who had done this to him.

Clint fell silent, giving Bucky a hard look.

Bucky felt like Clint was trying to peel back the layers of his skin and look inside him. It was like he was trying to find a way to make this better, or maybe he was just trying to see what he could do that wouldn't cause Bucky to fall into a gibbering mess.

"Listen, you don't have to do this," Clint said, words sounding uselessly familiar. "I can handle it on my own, and the last thing you need is to go back out into the field being forced to work for—"

"Fury isn't forcing me to help you," Bucky cut in. "It's my choice. The only one I've been given in years." That had the desired effect on Clint, and his mouth snapped shut with a clack while his face took on a pinched look that he reserved for any discussion about the details of HYDRA's treatment.

"Okay, sure," Clint said after a few beats of silence. "But this doesn't need to be the first thing you do. Hell, if it was me in your shoes, I wouldn't want to step out into the field for weeks." His eyes flicked to his right for an instant, an easy tell for Bucky to see the lie.

Bucky narrowed his eyes at Clint, who immediately raised his hands.

"Okay, yep, that's a lie, but here's the truth. My handler, Coulson, he wouldn't let me out into the field for weeks after a particularly bad mission. He would look past all my bullshit and actually see what was going on with me, not just physically, but mentally, and he would have me benched. For my own good, he would say, and he was usually right." Clint paused, a shadow crossing his face for a brief moment. "But he's not around anymore and now it's just Fury making calls about his agents when he's not thinking about them as anything but chess pieces that he can move around on the board. He's not thinking about me, and he sure as hell isn't thinking about you. The both of us might want to get back out there, but the real question that we should be asking is _if_ we should." Clint looked away again and then mumbled, "I just want to make sure you're okay, but I already know that answer to that. You're not, and you're not going to be for a long time."

Bucky's chest was tight and his lips were glued together, stopping any words from getting out. Not that he could think of anything to say to the rush of emotion that had just poured out of Clint.

"I..." he started, clearing his throat, but Clint was already backing up towards the door.

"It's all good, Bucky," Clint said, voice oddly light. "We don't really have a choice about this. Weston needs to be stopped, and neither of us have the time to take a break. But hey, when this shit with Weston is over, you and me and Super Smash Bros."

Bucky frowned, feeling mental whiplash at the change of attitude from his friend.

"It's a game, old man," Clint said with a roll of his eyes. "Don't worry, I'll show you how it works. In the meantime, I'm going to find a doc to take a look at your arm to get it working, and before you even ask, I'm going to stick around to make sure they don't keep sticking you full of needles because they always do that to me and I hate it..." he kept talking, but his voice faded as he exited the room.

Bucky blinked at the door, not sure what else to do. Clint was right; it wasn't healthy to be charging back out into the field, but Bucky, and HYDRA, hadn't been very concerned about his health for the past couple of decades, and it was too hard to change that mentality.

The mission always came first.

Besides, Bucky reasoned, once he was topside with Clint, they would be able to plan an escape and from there they would find the peace that they so desperately needed.

.

.

It had been hours since Natasha had received the message from Clint, but it seemed like only minutes to Tony.

He felt like he was freezing from the inside out. Ice was flowing through his veins, spreading to each of his limbs and holding them into place. He hadn't moved from the stool in the corner of his lab, watching in numb silence as Steve anxiously paced back and forth behind Natasha, while her slim fingers danced over one of his computer's keyboards.

He didn't really know what she was doing; it wouldn't have been really hard to figure out where Clint was when he sent the text, but maybe she was trying to pinpoint exactly where Fury's compound was. That would explain the difficulty she was facing; Fury was a sly bastard and wouldn't make it easy for anyone.

Tony probably should be helping, but he wasn't. A part of him was itching to get his hands on a computer to find Fury's base so that he could finally come face to face with his parents' murderer, but another part of him just wanted to sleep.

He was so fucking tired, and he craved the blissful unawareness that only sleep offered.

Tony just wanted to forget everything that he had learned in the past month. Without that knowledge he would still be firm friends and co-leaders with Steve, instead of this hesitant dance between allies and enemies that they were playing.

But he couldn't forget. Every time he closed his eyes all he could see was Bucky Barnes staring at him with cold, dead eyes as he stood at the scene of the car crash.

Tony's fingers tightened into clenched fists. He dug them into his thighs, trying to quell the anger that was rising.

He knew that if he killed Barnes, it would destroy Steve, but what almost scared him the most was that he wasn't sure he cared.

The emotions inside his ribcage were at war with each other and Tony was just sitting back, letting them duke it out.

He didn't know what he was going to do; he didn't want to have to choose, but the choice between Steve and avenging his parents was looming and once he decided, there would be no going back.

"Tony."

Tony's head jerked up, eyes unfocused. "Huh? What?"

Sam was standing in front of him, an unreadable look on his face.

"What's up, birdboy?" Tony asked, straightening on the stool.

Sam didn't react to the name, but he did lean forward slightly and said, "Isn't that confusing? You call Clint birdbrain and now I'm birdboy?"

Tony waved a hand. "It's not my fault that you both decided to have code names that are birds."

Sam opened his mouth to protest, but seemed to change his mind at the last second. Instead, he shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Tell me where your head is at, Stark," he said, completely throwing Tony for a loop. That hadn't been expected at all.

He scooted back on the stool a little. "I barely know you, birdboy. Buy me dinner first." He quirked his lips, a façade for the truth rippling under his skin.

"Steve told you I've worked with Vets," Sam said, ignoring the quips. "This is me, making sure every member of our team is good to go. I don't want you running out there and getting yourself killed."

The concern seemed to be real, but Tony didn't trust it. He had learned not to trust compassion or sympathy a long time ago. Besides, he knew that Sam was Steve's man through and through.

They had to know that Tony wasn't going to let them rescue Barnes from Fury's clutches and not do anything.

He narrowed his eyes at Sam. "If you think that I'm going to listen to you when you tell me that I need to stay behind for my own safety, then you're not as smart as Steve told me."

"I wasn't going to," Sam said, voice even. "I just said that I want to make sure every member of our team—"

"Yeah, I heard you the first time," Tony said, cutting Sam off. "I'm good, Wilson."

Sam gave him a long look, probably searching for a lie somewhere in Tony's features, but Tony wasn't going to give him anything and his face remained impassive.

Finally, Sam's head dipped and he gave Tony a nod. "Okay. If you need to take a step back, if it gets to be too much—"

"I'm fine!" Tony snapped, and then swallowed. "I'm good to go, Sam," he added with more control.

Sam didn't say anything else, but he gave Tony a parting nod and turned on his heel, leaving Tony to his thoughts once again.

Tony watched Sam's retreating back, knowing that he hadn't passed Sam's test; it was clear to both of them that Tony was far from alright, but that wasn't going to hold him back from the mission.

And, really, if Sam wanted to nitpick, it was more than obvious that Steve wasn't alright either. The other man had hardly stood still for more than a few minutes since he had found out that Fury had had Bucky this whole time.

The look etched on Steve's face promised retribution when he came face to face with Fury, and for a moment, Tony wondered if that's what Steve's face would look like when—if Barnes was taken from him again.

He shook his head, dashing those thoughts away and focusing on Natasha's straight back once again.

The time hadn't come for him to make his choice yet, and in the meantime, he would just have to wait with his thoughts until Natasha found something.

.

.

A/N: This chapter was kinda hard to write. Mostly because it's sort of a filler chapter, but it's important to move the story along...but also not a whole lot is happening (other than EMOTIONS). Anyway, hopefully it's still enjoyable!

I can promise that shit is about to go down! Probably in my next chapter (or the one after that).

Also, I feel like I slapped this chapter together, so there are probably a lot of mistakes all over the place. Sorry about that.

As always, reviews/favorites/follows are the best and really motivating for me! So thank you!


	11. Chapter 11

[11]

Clint was having serious doubts about his IQ. Not just his, but Bucky and Fury's too.

Clint didn't _think_ he was this dumb, but who knew at this point.

In what world did they think sending Bucky and him topside to act like backup and bait, respectively, was a good idea?

Sure, Clint had been running on fumes and Bucky was desperate for freedom (and Fury apparently didn't give a shit about them), but that was no excuse for them to cave and agree to this so easily.

There had been another way; they just hadn't found it yet.

"Clint?"

Clint blinked and his surroundings came back into sharp focus. Bucky stood in front of him, metal arm whirring and shifting at his side. He was dressed in black fatigues and a leather jacket that left his metal arm exposed.

His hair was pulled back into a high bun, which Clint had thoroughly made fun of him for, despite the severity of the situation.

The lower half of his face was covered in a muzzle-like mask that gave Clint chills every time he looked at it. He didn't look like Bucky. He looked like the Winter Soldier, which was the point, Clint supposed.

"Um, yeah?" Clint said, pulling his eyes away from the Winter Soldier and back onto Bucky's blue eyes. "I mean, yes?"

Bucky raised his hand, tapping it against his ear. "We've got comms, so we'll keep in contact the whole time we're out there."

Clint nodded, his own hand going up to touch the small comm jammed into his ear. He was relieved that he would be able to speak to Bucky at any time, but it also meant that their communication was probably going to be recorded by Fury's tech people, which meant that he wouldn't have a chance to tell Bucky about the phone tucked in the pocket of his pants.

He could _show_ Bucky the phone, but to no one's surprise Todd Morris was along for the ride, despite Clint's protests. He was there as secondary "backup" but Clint knew that Fury had sent him along to watch Bucky. Though, it was laughable that Fury thought Todd could even put up a fight, trying to stop Bucky from doing whatever the hell he wanted.

In any case, Bucky would have to remain in the dark about the line of communication that Clint had with Natasha, and presumably Steve at this point. He didn't think he was going to be able to keep the phone for much longer anyway. He had disabled the GPS tracker, but he knew that the Sheriff was going to give up on finding the missing phone and would have it shut off soon.

Clint guessed he had another couple of hours before it became useless.

"Eyes up here, Barton," Todd said, striding into Clint's view. He stopped next to Bucky, pausing and giving Bucky an apprehensive look before focusing back on Clint, throat bobbing. "We've had reports that Weston has been sighted here in town, but we believe that he hasn't tried to attack and kill another SHIELD agent. This means that he's waiting for you to show up, but he's not stupid. He was SHIELD, so he knows how to stay hidden from us until he's ready."

Clint did his best to look interested, which is to say that he didn't try at all.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, Todd." He waved a hand towards the one window in the room, gesturing to the outside city of Lander, Wyoming. "Weston is out there, lying in wait to kill me. Got it."

Lander was a small town with a close knit community of people that would notice a stranger in a minute, despite the influx of new people from the small Catholic college that had been steadily growing for the last couple of years.

If there had been reports of Weston wandering around the town, Clint believed them, trusting the locals to know what they were talking about.

The problem with Lander was that it was so small that it wouldn't give Bucky a good place to set up where he would have a decent vantage point of the surrounding areas. Weston had probably done this on purpose, not because he knew about Bucky, but more because of who Clint was. He knew that Clint was the best sniper SHIELD had and his ideal location was somewhere up high. He wanted to keep Clint close to the ground and not give him the advantage.

But Clint wasn't worried; he knew Bucky would have his back no matter where he was. It was a strange feeling, being so comfortable with someone who he never been out in the field with and was an infamous assassin that had killed more people than Clint could count, but the fact remained that Clint had bonded with Bucky and trusted him with his life.

"Barton—," Todd started with a glare.

"I've got it handled," Clint said, interrupting him. He hide a grin as Todd's mouth snapped shut and his teeth grinded together as he struggled to keep his anger in check.

Clint turned his gaze to Bucky, who was standing silently at Todd's side. He looked amused even if Clint couldn't really see any of his face but his eyes.

"I'm more concerned about Bucky walking outside of our safe house in his getup." Clint stabbed a finger in the air, gesturing to Bucky's mask and black clothes. "I'm not sure we can just say he's going through a Goth phase."

Bucky's eyebrows cinched together in a confused frown.

Clint flapped a hand. "I'll explain later." He looked back to Todd. "I'm very serious, Todd. Bucky can't go outside in what he's wearing. He couldn't even do that if we were in New York City. He's going to stick out like a sore thumb. Did Fury think it was a good idea? Or are we trying to make Weston shit his pants when he sees Bucky?"

"If," Todd corrected, ignoring Clint's quips. " _If_ he sees Barnes. Hopefully, you'll do your job and he won't have to go out there to save your ass."

Clint's eyes narrowed, but he figured he deserved that.

"Clint's right," Bucky said, voice muffled from the mask. He reached a hand up, plucking the stiff black mask off his face. "I can't go anywhere outside with what I'm wearing." He turned to face Todd, who blanched under Bucky's direct gaze. "Find me a jacket that covers both my arms."

Todd seemed to be frozen to the floorboards, but when Bucky leaned closer, he flinched and scooted away.

"I'll be back," he said. He gave Bucky one last, scared look before hurrying from the room and disappearing into the depths of the safe house.

Clint didn't even wait until Todd was out of earshot before letting out a laugh.

When he turned to Bucky, his friend had an amused smile on his lips, but he was doing a better job containing his mirth.

"Todd is never going to come on mission with me again," Clint said. "Good work."

Bucky shrugged, grin widening.

Silence dropped over them and Clint moved to the window, fingers tugging at the blinds to get a look outside into the sunny town.

He felt Bucky at his side, but didn't turn to acknowledge his friend.

It suddenly occurred to him that they were alone for the first time ever. The house might be tapped, but no one was stopping Clint from showing Bucky the damn phone that he had stolen.

He stepped away from the window, hand going down into his pocket. He nodded at Bucky, who followed him, watching as Clint pulled out the slim black phone. His eyes widened, but his mouth remained tightly closed.

Clint carefully slid the phone back into his pocket and then said, "I'll give you a SOS over the comms if I think I feel Weston on my tail."

Bucky nodded; he understood the vague, one worded message in the sentence.

Clint's pre-mission jitters eased just a little, and he knew that this Weston nonsense would be over soon, which meant that he and Bucky would be able to devote their full attention to getting Bucky free of Fury's grasp.

.

.

 _Steve was overwhelmed. Complete sensory overload._

 _First the men were cheering for him and Peggy was giving him that damn look. The one with a ghost of a smile on her red lips, that made Steve's stomach do swoops, and then reality snapped back into place and he was getting dragged to Colonel Phillips' tent to get his ass chewed out._

 _It was all a bit much. Almost too much that Steve didn't even realize that Bucky had silently followed him inside the dimly lit tent until he heard rough hacking coming from behind his squared shoulders._

 _Phillips froze, mid-yell, his eyes snapping from Steve's face to over his shoulder. He squinted, face morphing into a darker frown._

" _Who the hell are you?" Phillips growled, palms pressing down onto his desk. He shifted as he tried to get a better look behind Steve's bulk._

 _Steve helpfully moved, making room for Bucky to step forward._

 _Bucky did so, standing at Steve's side in his frayed green sweater that hung off him in a worrying way._

 _Steve threw a concerned look at Bucky, eyes raking up and down his friend's form; he wished that he had forced Bucky to go to the medical tent as soon as they marched into camp._

 _Bucky's face was grey, ashen from the march that had almost killed him. He looked gaunt and the dark stubble that covered his cheeks did little to hide that._

 _There were bags under his eyes, so black and blue it looked like he had gotten socked in the face._

 _And even though Bucky was trying to stand up straight at attention, his whole body was trembling from the stress of simply standing._

 _He looked like death._

 _For a second, Steve wondered if Bucky had even escaped the HYDRA camp after all. This version of his friend wasn't the same one he had watched leave all those months ago. This Bucky looked like a revenant sent to haunt Steve's footsteps._

 _Steve swallowed, throat constricting. He tore his eyes away from Bucky's stubborn face and looked back to Phillips._

" _Well?" Phillips said, voice losing some of its heat; he had seen the same thing Steve had. "Speak up."_

" _Sergeant James Barnes, sir. 107_ _th_ _," Bucky said, his voice sounding like broken glass. He tried to clear his throat, but it turned into a cough. Bucky's back bent forward and he bunched his fist into his mouth, trying to smother the cough before it got away from him._

" _What are you doing here, Sergeant?" Phillips said, after Bucky had fallen silent again. He eyed Bucky. "You look like you should make a trip to the med tent."_

 _Bucky's throat bobbed as he swallowed dryly. "That's my next stop, sir."_

 _Liar. But Steve was going to make damn sure that Bucky went to that tent after they were done here._

" _I'm just here to make sure Steve, uh, Captain Rogers, has someone watching his back," Bucky continued, and Steve felt a swell of warmth towards his oldest friend._

 _Phillips' eyes narrowed and his mouth opened to tell them just what he thought about that, but Bucky spoke again._

" _And then to kick his ass when you were done. Sir."_

 _Phillips' eyes widened at the sudden strength and sincerity of Bucky's words; he probably didn't expect the person that Steve had thrown his entire military career away for (even if it wasn't real. Steve's cheeks still flushed at the thought of touring the U.S., pretending to punch Hitler) to threaten to stomp his ass into the ground for rescuing him. If Steve wasn't on the receiving end of it, he would have been proud of Bucky for stopping Phillips cold (he still was)._

 _Phillips swallowed an uncharacteristic grin, and stepped back from his desk, crossing his arms over his chest. He jerked his chin at Steve. "By all means, Sergeant."_

 _Bucky nodded his thanks, and suddenly rounded on Steve, who grimaced back; he knew what was coming._

" _Really, Steve?" Bucky said, spine straightening as if chewing Steve out for being stupid was giving him strength. "What were you thinking? Jumping outta an airplane with nothing but a shield and a broken radio—"_

" _It was working just fine when I jumped," Steve cut in, forgetting that they had an audience._

" _Yeah, but then it got broken because you were getting shot at as you floated down to earth in your very flimsy parachute," Bucky shot back, not missing a beat. "You didn't even have a weapon—and your fucking pistol does not count." He jabbed a finger at the pistol still holstered at Steve's hip. "You didn't have a backup clip and that, idiot, is a problem when you're up against countless Nazis." Bucky stabbed a finger at Steve's chest. His eyes widened almost comically as he realized that Steve's chest was not at the height he was used to._

 _He swallowed and some of his fire went out._

 _Steve frowned, but there wasn't anything he could do to help Bucky adjust to his new body. Hell,_ _ **he**_ _still wasn't used to it._

" _You could have been killed, dumbass," Bucky added, drawing his hand away from Steve's too big chest. Some of his righteous anger was back as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Are you listening, punk?" His head cocked to the side as his eyes raked up and down Steve's frame, making him feel like he was 5 feet again._

" _Uh, yeah, Buck."_

" _Good, then listen to this: You pull a stunt like this again, and I'll do a lot more than chew you out in front of your commanding officer." Bucky's eyes flicked to Phillips standing in silent amusement in his corner, but then he locked eyes with Steve again and the truth of what he meant shone through them._

 _What he was really saying was this: I'm gonna be here for you, punk, watching your six. Like always._

 _._

 _._

"I've got him," Natasha's voice pierced through Steve's mind.

He blinked rapidly, pulling himself out of his memories of Bucky.

"What?" Steve said. He cleared his throat, and tried to focus on Natasha. She was standing in front of where he was sprawled out on one of the hard chairs in the lab. She looked a little worse for wear after a long day and night of searching for Clint and Bucky, but her green eyes were bright.

"I found them," she said, voice hoarse from disuse.

Steve froze for a tenth of a second and then surged to his feet. He swiped a hand down his face, wiping away the memories of his past and the dull ache of little to no sleep that lingered behind his eyes.

"Where?" he demanded, blinking rapidly.

Natasha eyed him, but didn't suggest he calm down.

"They're here, in the States, like we knew. Out West, in Wyoming. A couple of miles from a town called Lander."

Steve had never heard of it, but that didn't matter.

"Sam," Steve said, jerking around to find where Sam was slowly blinking himself awake on one of Tony's inexplicable beanbags in the corner.

"Tony?" Steve added after Sam gave him a groggily nod. His neck twisted further in an attempt to pin down where Tony was.

His eyes stopped when he saw Tony, exactly where he had been all night, hunched on top of a stool that was pressed up against a wall.

He wasn't asleep, but he didn't look like he was fully aware of his surroundings either.

As he stared at Tony's dark eyes, Steve wished that he could leave Tony, frozen on the stool, while the rest of them suited up and flew to Wyoming to find Bucky.

But then Tony twitched back into awareness, eyes catching Steve's. They narrowed, and then Tony's back straightened.

"What?" he demanded.

Steve jerked a stiff chin towards where Natasha was standing silently behind them.

"Romanoff found them," he said quietly, feeling like he was sealing Bucky's fate with those soft words.

The emotions that flitted across Tony's face were hard to follow, but even with the rapid progression of anger and apprehension, Steve caught the guilt and regret that flickered in Tony's eyes.

Steve didn't know if it was for something that Tony had done or something he was planning to do. Either way, it made Steve's stomach clench in response.

After a moment of absolute stillness, both of them staring at each other in mutual hesitation, Tony sprang off the stool, staggering a little on his stiff legs.

Steve inched forward to offer a helping hand, but Tony waved him off with an impatient flick of his wrist and Steve let his hand drop uselessly to his side, watching as Tony limped past him.

"Where?" Tony asked, the words echoing Steve's from minutes before. He moved across the lab to where Natasha stood, ignoring Steve in favor of the bright computer screens.

Steve sought out Sam's eyes, not sure what he was broadcasting to his friend, but Sam gave him a solid nod back. The support was there, unspoken between them, and Steve felt a flicker of relief.

He then turned, hurrying to catch up to Tony, who was peering at the information Natasha had displayed on the screens. He blinked owlishly at them, fingers gripping his chin in concentration.

"Clint is in Wyoming," Natasha was saying at Tony's shoulder. She gave Tony a sidelong look. "We can only assume Barnes is there too. Knowing Fury, he's probably locked up somewhere."

Steve felt his face morph into a dark frown, and his chest burned with anger. Unconsciously, his fingers curled at his thighs, and Steve knew that he wouldn't be able to keep his rage in check when he finally found Fury.

"Steve?"

He could feel Sam next to him, but he didn't turn to look at his friend.

"I'm fine," Steve said brusquely.

He threw a look that was meant to be reassuring at Sam, but the other man didn't seem to buy it. Disbelief lined Sam's face as he stared back at Steve.

Steve forced himself to relax, letting his fingers straighten and tap against his legs.

"I will be fine," he amended.

That seemed to satisfy Sam, who turned his focus back to the computers.

"Well?" Tony said, pushing off from the desk. He spun on his heel so that he was facing Steve and Sam. Natasha shifted to face them too. She raked a hand through her red hair, letting it hang limply around her face.

Steve gave her a worried look; there were dark smudges under her eyes and her normally pale skin looked even paler and unhealthy under the too bright lights of the lab.

She caught him staring and immediately straightened, rolling her eyes at him.

"Are we leaving or not," Tony continued, missing the silent exchange between Steve and Natasha.

Steve looked back to Tony. The other man was practically vibrating, in anticipation or from the lack of sleep, Steve didn't know.

Steve's own body was reacting similarly, even as he tried to relax and stop the small shudders from rippling through him. He heaved out a whoosh of air, heading dropping momentarily to his chest.

"We need to rest," he said, finally. The words feeling like they were being dragged from his throat. They tasted bitter on his tongue, but he also knew that they couldn't keep going like they were.

There was the start of a protest from Tony and, surprisingly, Natasha, but Steve silenced them with a quick look.

"We're all half-dead on our feet. We can't go out there half-cocked. We need an actual plan and real rest."

They had been stupid before. It wasn't like the Tower didn't have bedrooms; they could have been sleeping while Natasha worked, but no one had wanted to leave and now they were paying the price.

"So you're saying, we just wait?" Tony demanded, not silenced for long. His mouth twisted and his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You're out of your mind—"

"At the very least, we need to clean up and suit up," Steve said, cutting him off. He gave Tony a hard look, and Tony's mouth pinched, but he nodded his agreement.

Steve eyed the small group. "Shower, change, eat. Then meet at the jet in 30."

It was a compromise; they all wanted to leave immediately— _needed_ to leave—but they were exhausted not just physically, but mentally too and needed a minute to regroup.

Steve waited for each one of them to nod and then silently exit the lab before following them out.

His stomach was churning as he rode the elevator up to the apartments. His teammates surrounded him on all sides, but Steve felt alone.

In a short while, he would finally see Bucky again, but he wasn't sure that was a good thing or not.

Just like after that HYDRA camp, he didn't think the Bucky he found was going to be the same one he had left behind. He would take whatever Bucky he was given, but the idea that maybe this Bucky would be shattered into too many pieces for him to help put back together made him shiver with fear.

At his side, Steve could hear Tony's shallow breathing. He couldn't imagine what was going through Tony's mind, but he had a pretty good guess.

He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed that Tony wouldn't grind the pieces that were left of Bucky into the dust with his heel.

Nothing had been solved between them, and Steve didn't know what he was going to do when Tony tried to kill Bucky. It finally, truly hit him that there was no convincing Tony that Bucky had been out of his mind; Tony was out for blood and he would take it one way or another.

Steve swallowed and then squared his shoulders, staring at the metal elevator doors.

In a matter of hours, choices would have to be made and Steve knew that blood was going to be spilled, but he knew who he would choose every time.

 _I'm always gonna watch your six, punk._

.

.

Clint felt a bit like a moron just sitting on the park bench that overlooked the main town square. The park was on a small hill, giving Clint a good view of the surrounding areas. It was also far enough away from most civilians that when Weston made a move, they would be out of danger. At least, Clint hoped they would be. One of them could easily wander into the park and try to strike up a conversation with him; Clint wouldn't put it past any of the college kids he had seen walking around with large backpacks slung on their backs.

"How's it looking, pal?" Clint said quietly, eyes staying firmly on his surroundings, but he could feel Bucky watching him from where he was nestled on the roof Pronghorn Lodge with his hefty sniper rifle that had Clint drooling when Bucky pulled it out; why couldn't Fury give him toys like that?

"No one in sight," Bucky's voice came back, clear without the mask to block his mouth. Todd had found Bucky a hooded dark purple sweatshirt that looked vaguely familiar and told him to wear the hood at all times. Clint didn't really know why; it wouldn't do that much good at hiding Bucky's features, but he didn't voice his opinion.

"Great," Clint said, huffing out a breath of his air between his lips.

He hunched on the park bench, propping his elbows onto his knees. He stared moodily out into the sunny town, wishing that Weston would make a move; he was so sick of that guy and his stupid games.

"Hey," Clint said again, straightening. "Is Mr. Buzzkill with you?"

He waited for a retort from Todd, but didn't get any; he wasn't really sure where Todd had set himself up, but he figured he was close and that he was tapped into the comms.

"He's not on," Bucky said. His voice was different than Clint was used to, lower and more serious, but then Clint supposed that was kinda how Bucky sounded all the time.

But he knew that being out in the field like this probably wasn't easy for Bucky. It was the first time that he wasn't working for HYDRA and the first time that he knew his own mind. With the thrill of freedom running through his veins, who knew what was going on inside Bucky's head.

Clint cleared his throat, and didn't ask if Bucky was okay; it wasn't the time or place.

"Cool, tell me if he pipes up," Clint said instead.

"Why?" Bucky asked, suspicious lining his voice.

"Oh, no reason," Clint said, hand dipping down into his pants pocket and pulling out the stolen phone.

He checked the screen, noting that it was still functioning. Probably not for much longer.

Clint threw a quick glance around the park, but there wasn't much to see. Just a few students from the local college and townies walking down the few trails that wound through the grass.

Turning his attention to the screen, Clint punched in one of Natasha's phone numbers. He eyed the blank screen for a moment and then thumbed out a text message: **Greetings from Lander! I caught a flu here and I'm still trying to shake it. Luckily, I've strong medicine watching my back.**

Clint squinted at the words; it wasn't his finest work, but it would have to do. He didn't really have all day to be figuring out how to make the message memorable and funny, and anyway, he knew that he had given Nat enough information to glean that he was in Wyoming and from there, he had faith that she would be able to find Fury's compound.

"Clint!" Bucky's voice was harsh in his ear, but it was all the warning Clint got before he was rammed into the back of the park bench by a bullet to his chest.

All the breath was shoved out of Clint, but that was all the damage caused by the bullet; Clint's bulletproof vest had done its work.

With his lungs still demanding air, Clint jerked off the park bench, rolling forward onto the grass and staying at a low crouch. His left hand had already plucked his Glock 17 out of its holster by the time he was upright.

His eyes were up and flicking around, trying to pinpoint where the shot had come from. Weston must have been using a silencer because the gunshot had been a muffled popping sound.

He vaguely recognized that Bucky was hissing something in his ear, but he was ignoring it in favor of finding Weston.

There was no one in the park anymore; Clint didn't know where they had gone, but the college students and the locals had disappeared, all in the time that it had taken him to text Natasha.

A movement to his left drew Clint's attention. His eyes zeroed in on Weston standing at the edge of some trees in the middle of the park, pistol gripped tightly in his hand. He stared at Clint, but didn't make another move to shoot him.

Clint slowly stood, hand going up to his shirt where he tugged at the buttons to loosen the collar. Without looking, his fingers blindly felt for the bullet that was jammed into the Kevlar. The metal was warm and hard under his fingertips, and with some yanking it came free.

He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, eyeing Weston, who still stood just out of reach at the tree line.

Clint heaved in a deep breath, chest and ribs screaming in protest, and then called out, "You missed."

"Clint," Bucky growled in his ear. "Don't be an idiot."

Clint ignored this.

Weston shrugged in response and then lifted the pistol again.

Clint's eyes widened and he threw himself to the dirt, hearing the muffled crack of the bullet overhead.

"You asshole!" Clint shouted, surging to his feet and taking off towards Weston, who turned on his heel and ducked further into the trees.

"Clint! I can't get a bead on him," Bucky snapped in Clint's ear. "The trees—"

He might have said something else, but he was cut off by Todd's unwelcome voice.

"Barton, do not let him go! You get Weston—,"

Clint let out a low growl, shutting Todd out. His focus was on Weston, who was leading him into the woods, presumably into a trap.

He slowed as he entered into the woods, eyeing where Weston was waiting for him several feet away. His legs were shielded by clumps of underbrush, but other than that Weston hadn't given himself any cover against an attack from Clint.

Clint brought up his Glock, holding it easily with one hand. He cocked his head to the side to get a better look at Weston.

"What was the plan?" he called out, easing to the side to give himself a little cover behind one of the trees. "You know who the better shot in this scenario is. If not, let me give you a hint: It's not you." He flashed his teeth into a quick grin.

Weston's eyes narrowed at Clint. "You always were a cocky bastard."

"Not that I'm aware of," Clint said with a shrug. "Well, the bastard part anyway."

Weston shifted, and Clint's grip on his gun tightened at the movement.

Weston threw him an amused look.

"Jumpy?"

"Nope."

"Good."

Clint rolled his eyes. "Okay, as witty as this conversation is. Can we just get on with it? Why don't you try to kill me and then we'll go from there."

Weston didn't move.

"I've heard a rumor," he said slowly, "that Fury has another puppet."

Clint's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"C'mon, Barton, don't play dumb. You know who I'm talking about."

Clint glared across the trees. "I really don't."

In an instant, Weston's face morphed, anger rippling along his features. He almost stepped forward, but stopped himself before moving out of the underbrush—definitely a trap of some kind.

"I'm talking about the Winter Soldier!" Weston yelled. "You know where he is." It wasn't a question, but Clint didn't intend on answering it one way or another.

"Aw, Weston, I thought you came all this way to kill just me," Clint said, and then under his breath muttered, "Bucky? Don't follow me. I've got this handled."

There was a clicking through the comms and a second later a soft voice murmured, "Too late."

Clint's frown deepened, but he didn't turn around to acknowledge Bucky. Instead, he watched as Weston's face paled, anger draining from him in waves, as he looked behind Clint's shoulder to where Bucky had appeared.

Clint shifted, throwing a quick look to where Bucky was standing.

Bucky had tossed the purple hoodie and was wearing the black jacket from before. His metal arm glinted in the light that flittered through the shafts of the tree branches. It whirred menacingly as he shifted closer to Clint.

He looked every inch the Winter Soldier.

Weston's throat bobbed as he swallowed roughly. His hand holding the pistol, trembled and he eased it from Clint to Bucky: the more pressing threat. "It's you. The Winter Soldier. The rumors are true."

"It's me," Bucky agreed and then lifted his metal hand and fired a single round from his black Sig Sauer.

The bullet hit Weston square on his forehead. His head snapped back with a spray of blood, and for a moment his body seemed to hang suspended, but then it went boneless, crumbling to the ground, hidden from view in the foliage.

Clint rounded on Bucky a surprising amount of anger at his friend's action rising in his chest. "What the hell was that?"

Bucky didn't answer, eyes still on the dispatched threat.

Clint was still waiting for an answer when the claymore mine went off, triggered by Weston's body falling on them. The trap that he had set for Clint was a poorly designed one, but Clint couldn't fault the dead man for it; he probably hadn't really expected to leave Wyoming alive.

There was more than one mine going off, a train reaction caused by the first one. The blast sent Clint flying backwards, his body arching into a U shape as waves of heat hit him. He smashed into the nearest tree a brief second later, his back taking the brunt of it, but his head snapped backwards too, smacking heavily against the bark.

Clint dropped to the ground, no air in his lungs, and blood streaming down his face from where debris must have cut him. He knew that he had hit his head, but Clint couldn't feel it.

He couldn't feel anything, and he was too far gone to realize why that was a very bad thing.

The ringing in his ears was too loud to hear anything, and Clint realized that the black spots dancing in front of his eyes wasn't just the smoke streaming from where the trees had caught fire.

He tried to prop himself up on his hands, but his arms didn't seem to be working, and he slumped further into the dirt.

"Aw, fuck," he said, but he couldn't even hear that.

He was losing consciousness quickly and even in his concussed state, Clint thought he heard someone shouting his name and cold hands gripping his head.

Vaguely, he wondered if it was Bucky or if his friend was lying somewhere in the dirt too.

But Clint found that he didn't really care one way or another because darkness was quickly overtaking him, and seconds later his eyes rolled backwards.

.

.

A/N: Oh snap, things are happening!

So I've been to Lander, Wyoming before (my sister actually went to the college I mention), but I'm clearly not an expert on where anything is because while I definitely remembered a hill of some kind (aka the park) but it totally isn't a park and might actually be a McDonald's? At least that's what my sister was saying when I asked her after I already wrote that part. So yeah, definitely not accurate, but I decided I didn't care because it was too much work to go back and figure something else out (I'm hella lazy).

I'm actually really happy with multiple parts of this chapter (surprising, I know) and hopefully it's actually as good as I seem to think. Also, I think it might my longest chapter so far?

The next chapter is probably the one that people are waiting for (hell, it's one that I've been waiting for), so stay tuned for that.

Anyway, enough rambling. Thanks for the reviews/favorites/follows! They keep me going.


	12. Chapter 12

[12]

They were in the quinjet when Natasha got the second text from Clint, confirming what they already knew: that he was in Lander, Wyoming. There was some questions of what he meant by having the flu, which, according to Natasha, was code for deep shit.

30 minutes later, the reports came in about an explosion in one of the small parks in Lander.

"That absolute idiot!" Natasha snapped when Tony silently showed her the report on his tablet. She was flying the jet, and he didn't really want them to crash, but she needed to know what they were flying into, and anyway, she knew Clint best out of any of them.

"You think he was involved?" Tony asked, eyeing Natasha who turned her attention back to the windshield of the jet, hands gripping the throttles so tightly that her knuckles were going bone white.

"Who else?" she bit out without looking at Tony. "I swear that anywhere Clint is, chaos usually follows. The moron can't stay away from it."

Tony didn't say anything, but he understood. She was hiding it behind harsh words and pinched lips, but her worry for Clint was evident.

He reached out a hesitant hand, placing it on her shoulder and gently squeezing.

Her head jerked around at the touch, and for a moment Tony thought he had made a huge mistake and was about to lose the hand. He quickly made peace with the idea of only having one hand for the rest of his life, when Natasha's face softened and she gave him a nod of thanks.

He nodded back and then stepped away from the controls; Natasha would need a moment to prepare for what might be waiting for them in Lander.

Hell, Tony needed a moment to contemplate the idea that they might be down another teammate. A teammate he didn't know well, but a teammate nevertheless.

"Tony?" Steve's quiet voice came from the back of the jet where he and Sam were strapped in. "Did you show her?"

"Yeah," Tony said, walking carefully back to his seat. He tossed the tablet to the side, sitting back down.

He mashed his palms into his face, rubbing roughly. His stubble pricked his skin, and belatedly Tony realized that it had been weeks since he had properly shaved. The stress of waiting for something to happen for the past month had overtaken anything else in his life.

"We don't know that he was near when the bombs went off." Steve's voice came again, floating into Tony's ears.

Face still buried in his hands, Tony didn't bother to try and smother his snort. It came out muffled, but it was loud enough for Steve and Sam to hear it.

"Then who else, Steve?" Tony snapped, dropping his hands and lifting his head. He looked towards his teammate, eyeing Steve with a sudden and hot anger. "We know that Clint is in Lander, running missions for Fury. We know there was an explosion in Lander." He paused. "One plus one equals...?" He held up two fingers, glaring at Steve.

Steve accepted the anger that Tony was shoving at him with a small nod. Tony could see the way he let it rest on his shoulders, making them bow under the weight of it. He had expected Steve to snap back, yell at him, but he didn't. He only gave Tony another nod, and then sat back against his seat, turning his gaze to his boots and gripping the straps that held him in with both hands.

Tony swallowed, still staring at Steve as his anger shimmered down to a small glow. That right there, was the reason that Steve was more than just the figurehead of the Avengers. Sure, he and Steve led the Avengers together, but Steve was the _leader_. That thought made Tony's mouth twist, and he didn't really know why.

So he lapsed into a sullen silence, glaring at the opposite wall of the jet and purposely not looking at Steve's profile.

A sense of doom was slowly filling Tony, starting at his ribs and crawling up into his throat. He didn't know what was waiting for them in Lander, whether it was Clint's dead body or Bucky Barnes, but he did know, that no matter what happened, he was going to lose. Lose his teammates, lose justice for his parents...lose himself. It was just a matter of time.

.

.

Black smoke tickled Tony's nostrils as they trudged up the hill to the smoldering ruins of what had once been a park.

He wished for the tenth time since they had landed the 'jet that he had worn his Iron Man suit and not just the red and gold gauntlets on his wrists, but they had collectively decided to ditch their costumes in favor of their civilian clothes so that they wouldn't attract too much unwanted attention.

His eyes raked the scene as they neared the top of the hill. It was hard to see where the explosion had gone off, but it looked like it had happened deep in the mess of trees, out of view of the public eye.

There was no way to determine the extent of the damage or if there had been casualties.

Tony's gut clenched and a desperate thought of _please don't be any casualties_ raced through his mind.

Nondescript black SUVs and several emergency vehicles blocked any clear way into the park, and clumps of men and women in suits stood silently by their black cars, while local law enforcement officers scurried around the scene with harried looks on their faces; Tony guessed they weren't used to bombs going off in their town, but then again, he wasn't sure anyone was used to that.

"So the plan," Tony said, side-eyeing Steve, who was standing at Tony's shoulder, "is to waltz up to the yellow tape and the G-men and ask if we can take a look around?" He didn't give Steve a chance to reply. "SHIELD isn't part of the government anymore. We can't just—"

"Steve Rogers?" A new voice broke into Tony's words. He threw a baleful glare at the interrupter; he was just getting started on his rant.

The man was wearing a suit and sunglasses, and was standing at one of the black SUVs. He was staring at Steve, recognition clear on his face, despite Steve's disguise of sunglasses and a baseball hat. Tony had said that Steve looked just like himself, only with accessories, but no one had listened to him.

The man strode forward, leaving his group of agents behind, hand outstretched. "I'm Agent Todd Morris."

Steve hesitated a moment before taking the hand and giving it a firm shake. It wasn't hard to see that Steve would always be uncomfortable with people recognizing him, but he was hiding it better than he had when Tony first met him.

Morris' eyes flicked from Steve to the rest of the group. Tony watched as they widened at Tony's small wave and Natasha's impassive face. Sam clearly made no impact on the agent, but if that bothered Sam, he didn't show it.

"We...we weren't expecting the Avengers," Morris stuttered out, cheeks coloring slightly. He visibly shook himself, pulling it together. "Fury didn't mention that you would be showing up." His voice was firmer this time, and his mouth tightened in a sudden suspicion.

Tony frowned; he hadn't realized that the G-men were, in fact, SHIELD agents. Or at least, some of them were.

"Fury doesn't know we're here," Steve said, taking it in a stride that SHIELD was already on the scene. "We want to see him, but before doing that we need to know what happened here." He gestured to the smoke still rising into the blue sky behind Morris. "Give us a rundown."

Morris threw a look over his shoulder to the smoke, frowning.

"It's not—"

Natasha slinked forward, easily pushing Steve out of the way so that she was nose to nose with Morris.

He blinked rapidly at her sudden proximity, going crossed-eyed under his glasses.

"Tell us where Clint is. Now."

"How did you know...?"

" _Now_."

Morris hurriedly flapped a hand to his left, gesturing to where an emergency vehicle was parked. Its lights were flashing red and white, and Tony could see agents and EMTs clustered at the back; they looked like they were packing up and getting ready to leave.

Natasha took off without a word.

Steve and Tony exchanged a look in a moment of rare solidarity, and then followed behind her. Sam stayed, probably to deal with Morris.

Natasha made it to the huddle of people first. One of the suited men tried to stop her from moving past them, but with an easy twist of his hand, Natasha sent him falling to the ground in a heap of tangled limbs.

Steve and Tony passed the whimpering man, leaving him in the dirt as they followed their red-haired teammate.

Tony wasn't sure what to expect when he got to the back of the ambulance, but his stomach was doing little flips as his considerable imagination raced forward with images of Clint dead in the back, or Clint bloody, but alive and grinning under white blankets.

He blinked the images away and then watched as Natasha's shoulders sagged as she peered into the back. He didn't know what that meant, if it was good or bad, and picked up his pace.

He skidded to a halt at Natasha's side, peeking over her shoulder to look inside the back of the ambulance.

It was empty.

No Clint. No Barnes. Nobody was inside.

A wave of relief crashed over him, but then he looked closer. The gurney's sheets were rumbled and stained with dirt and rusty blood.

Tony could feel blood draining out of his face, eyes glued to the stains. He reached a hand up, tapping it against his cheek as if that would help get the blood flowing again.

"There's no body," he said when no one spoke. "That's good, right? Someone tell me that's a good thing."

"It is."

Tony twisted around at the newcomer's voice. It was one of the local EMTs. He had broken off of the group, who were all keeping their distance after what Natasha had done to the other man. He was also standing a considerable distance away from them, out of reach of Natasha's hands.

Tony waited for him to say something more, but he didn't. He just eyed them warily; fingers tapping against his navy blue pants.

"Well...?" Tony prompted, resisting the urge to reach forward and shake the kid until he told them what he knew.

The EMT eyed them and then jerked his chin at the gurney. "We were the first responders to the scene. One fatality and two survivors." He rattled it off so casually that it took a second for Tony to process what he had said.

Someone was dead? Tony didn't blink, waiting for the EMT to continue.

"The two survivors dragged themselves out of the woods by the time we got here," he continued, gesturing vaguely behind him. "One of them was unconscious, but the other one was coherent and was able to tell us that his teammate had several lacerations on his face and chest and a concussion. I was helping treat him in here when he woke up and started throwing a fit about being patched up. Really funny guy." The helpful EMT's mouth twisted sourly. "But—"

"Who were they?" Natasha cut in lowly.

The EMT shrugged. "I wasn't told. You government people showed up and whisked them both away. I think they must have been agents too. At least I think they were because they weren't arrested and the guy with the concussion kept demanding to see Fury and then saying that he needed someone." The EMT frowned, eyes squinting into the distance as he tried to remember. "Someone called Nat, I think?"

The name sent a tidal wave of relief over Tony and his teammates. There was only one person who got away with calling Natasha by a nickname, present group excluded.

That meant that Clint was alive.

They turned to leave, to go find Morris again and demand to be taken to Clint, when the EMT spoke again, stopping them in their tracks.

"The other guy was okay too. Scary as fuck, though." He paused and his voice dropped to a low whisper. "He had a metal arm."

.

.

"Rogers," Hill said, mouth opening to say more, maybe to stop him from getting to Fury, but Steve ignored her; she wasn't even a blip on his radar as far as he was concerned.

Fury stood behind her, arms crossed over his black sweater. He watched as Steve pushed past Hill, who made a futile attempt to grab his arm. He could clearly see Steve coming, but either he didn't care or he didn't think Steve was a threat.

His mistake.

Steve's knuckles met Fury's face with a satisfying crack. The sting of bone hitting bone spread throughout Steve's hand, but the discomfort was fleeting and pushed aside as he threw his fist out again for another hit.

Fury's head jerked backward and he stumbled a few steps away, but he didn't fall down.

Steve's lips pulled back over his teeth in a growl and he raised his fist again when Fury held up one hand to ward Steve off while the other went to his split lip, gingerly touching it with the pad of his finger.

"You going to hit me again?" His voice was muffled, like it was coming from under water.

Steve couldn't hear clearly. The roaring in his ears, the rage pounding against his skull, was too loud.

It took all of a second for Steve to realize that he was about to lose any semblance of control he had over himself.

Another second passed and it occurred to him that this was what Tony had to be feeling, but not towards Fury. Tony's rage had only one destination in mind.

If Steve wanted to fix this mess, to stop Tony from unleashing his anger, than he needed to be in control.

So he reigned it in. Took a breath, swallowed down the anger, and loosened his fingers.

He splayed out his hand, working the joints. The blotchy red spots on his skin wouldn't turn into purple bruises; they would fade and heal within the hour, and the only reminder Steve would have of punching Fury would be in his memories.

And Nick Fury's bloody lip. That would have to do for now.

"Feel better?" Tony said, sliding up to Steve's side.

Steve glanced at him. Tony's words were light, but Steve's rage had frightened Tony, leaving him shaken.

 _Good_ , Steve thought viciously, and then swallowed. Even if the scene had served as a warning to Tony, he didn't want to lose control like that again.

Steve unclenched his teeth and gave Tony a nod. "A little." He eyed Fury, who had taken a step or two away from Steve, creating enough distance that Steve wouldn't be able to easily hit him again.

Steve's eyes flicked around the room, finally taking in his surroundings now that his rage was shimmering.

The office was small, a lot smaller than Fury's old one in D.C. This one didn't have floor to ceiling windows either. Even if it was still on the ground level it was all painfully dark and enclosed, and Steve knew from Morris' rambling on the drive here that there were more levels under their feet.

A shudder gripped Steve as he imagined being locked down there for days on end.

His anger flickered again, close to the surface.

"Start talking, Fury," Steve said tightly, leaving no room for argument.

To Steve's surprise, Fury did.

Still prodding his face with his fingers, Fury said, "Barton's okay. He's in medical, two levels down." His eyes went over Steve's shoulder, and a brief second later Natasha was gone, taking Hill with her.

"And Bucky? Where the hell is he?" Steve felt Tony tense at the question.

"He's here too. Uninjured from the blast," Fury said. "We anticipated your arrival and any complications that might follow." He looked at Tony here.

Steve's jaw clicked; Fury knew the truth too.

"Barnes is safe, Rogers—"

"I want to see him," Steve interjected. "Now, Fury. No more platitudes, no more words. Tell me where he is." After he made sure Bucky was okay, he was going to get some answers about what Fury had been planning with Bucky and what had been done to him, but for now, Bucky came first.

Fury held Steve's eyes with his single one. Steve couldn't see any glimmer of what might be going on in Fury's head, but he never had been able to. He could only hope that Fury wouldn't pull any of his tricks and let Bucky go without any conditions or deals.

Even if he tried that, Steve wasn't going to follow Fury's rules; he was done playing that man's game.

Fury slowly nodded at Steve. "Come on then."

.

.

The elevator ride down was stifling with unspoken words and emotions, but Steve didn't care. He was too busy clenching and unclenching his hands in an attempt to stop himself from punching Fury again. Twice hadn't been enough.

But Steve was aware enough to realize that Tony was barely holding it together at his side. The other man was breathing swallow and rapid gasps of air, and his eyes were staring at nothing. Blank and hollow.

Steve could see the cracks under Tony's skin. They had been there for as long as Steve had known Tony, but they had lengthened and grown since the truth about his parents had come out.

Steve could see them, but he didn't know how to fix them. A part of him whispered that it wasn't his problem, that he hadn't caused the cracks, that Tony had already been broken, but Steve shook those thoughts away.

Whatever had happened, Tony was still his friend. He needed to fix this, and he would.

Just not yet.

The elevator jerked to a halt, and the doors slid open, revealing a well-lit hallway with a set of doors at the end of it.

Steve was out before the others even had moved. He was halfway down the hall in a heartbeat and a second later was at the doors.

They didn't budge under his hands, and his frustration grew. He pushed harder in an attempt to open them, even while a part of him knew that brute strength wasn't going to open them easily.

Fury silently appeared at Steve's elbow, punching a code into a keypad that Steve hadn't even seen. He then stepped aside, letting Steve shove open the doors.

It was dark inside, the only source of light coming from a glowing glass cage in the middle of the large room.

It was sparse in the cage, but Steve could see a hunched figure sitting on the cot.

Steve's heart raced and he jerked forward, practically running across the room to the cage. He stopped, almost running into it. Both of his palms slapped against the cool glass that was keeping Bucky enclosed.

His breath was coming in short gasps, fogging up the glass, as he stared at the man sitting on the cot. The man was hunched over his knees, face cupped in his hands. His dark hair was pulled back in a high knot that was starting to come undone, and the black leather of his jacket that was stretched across his back was spotty with ash.

It was Bucky. Steve knew it was, even without seeing his face.

He opened his mouth to say...what? What was he going to say to the one person who meant more to him than almost anyone?

He floundered, the pads of his fingers digging into the glass as he tried to gather his thoughts.

Which Bucky was sitting inside the cage? Was it the assassin that was sent to kill him, or was it a new version that Steve had never met? The thought that he might not find anything familiar about this Bucky sent shudders rippling through Steve.

And still his mouth gaped, and he didn't know what to say.

"Where's Clint?"

Bucky's voice startled Steve and he couldn't stop the shiver that ran down his spine at hearing Bucky's voice again; even knowing that Bucky was truly alive and sitting only a few feet away from him, it was like hearing a dead man speak.

"You bastards think that after what I did back there, you can just throw me in here and not tell me a damn thing? Bring me Fury or Hill. Someone more important than you—"

Bucky finally looked up and locked eyes with Steve, and the rest of his words died in his mouth.

"Steve...?" Bucky's mouth shaped the word and Steve could see his throat bob as he swallowed. "Are you—?" He shook his head suddenly and stood up.

Steve could see a mask snap into place over Bucky's face, hiding whatever weakness his friend thought he was showing.

They studied each other for a few moments. Steve stepped away from the glass and drank in the image of his not-dead friend, but he didn't know what Bucky was seeing when he looked at Steve.

Bucky looked better than the last time Steve had seen him. They had been fighting for their lives, but even still Bucky had looked pale and almost small under the bulky leather jacket and black pants.

Now his face was fuller and his eyes actually held a gleam of life and not the terror and anger that had flashed at Steve every time he had caught Bucky's eyes while they fought.

Steve's heart thumped painfully against his ribcage.

 _Bucky was alive_ , and maybe he wasn't the Bucky that Steve knew in the 40's, but at least this one was breathing, and that was what mattered.

"What are you doing here?" Bucky finally said, breaking the silence.

Steve blinked and focused on the present again. He tried to catch Bucky's eyes, but Bucky wasn't looking at him anymore. He was focused on a point somewhere over Steve's shoulder.

That hurt Steve more than he liked to admit, and he strode forward, pressing his hands against the glass again.

"I'm here for you. To get you out," Steve said, and then pushed off from the glass and rounded on Fury, who standing silently with Sam and Tony at the edge of the light. "Let him out. Now."

Fury's eyes slid from Steve's to Tony. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

Steve gave Tony a brief look. The other man stared blankly back, no sign of his intentions on his face.

"Yes," Steve said, looking back to Fury. "Let him out." If Tony made a move against Bucky, then Steve's hand would be forced and it was clear who he would choose.

Fury gave him another second to change his mind before he shrugged and strode towards the edge of the cage. His hands danced up the seam that held the two walls together. A clicking sounded and a moment later, a door was revealed and slid open.

All eyes in the room went to the door and then flicked to Bucky, waiting for him to make a move.

Bucky was frozen, staring at the door. He slowly moved forward, flesh hand brushing at the strands of hair that was falling into his face. He tucked them behind his ear in an achingly familiar move that Steve lost the breath in his lungs for a second.

He sidled forward and then leaned down to go through the exit. Bucky's boots hit the cement with a satisfying slap and Steve saw a small smile flicker across his lips.

There was a quiet gasp behind Steve, but he ignored Tony; he could only deal with one emotional crisis at a time.

"Buck?" he said quietly.

Bucky looked at him, and Steve had no idea what Bucky was thinking behind his hooded blue eyes. It was such a strange feeling, not knowing what was going on in Bucky's head; ever since they were kids, he had always known what Bucky was thinking and vis versa. They had been completely in sync, and now, Steve couldn't help but feel that he was a step behind Bucky and he couldn't catch up.

Bucky swallowed and then turned to Fury, who still stood near the door.

"Clint?" he asked brusquely.

Fury shrugged. "He's giving the medics hell."

"Good," Bucky said, and for a moment Steve could hear traces of his Bucky in that single word, but then Bucky straightened and started walking.

Steve's shoulders tensed and he half-raised his arms, expecting Bucky to come to him, but Bucky didn't.

Bucky spared him a glance and then brushed past Steve and the others, leaving the dark room in silence.

Steve's heart plummeted to his stomach and a choked gasp broke out of him. He didn't care if Fury or Tony saw the weakness; he felt like he was losing Bucky all over again.

.

.

Bucky forced away the memories of Steve that were flooding his mind; he didn't need them, not now. There was too much happening, and he didn't have time for them.

He wasn't the same person Steve remembered, his memories of their shared past had showed him that much. He didn't think he could ever be that person again.

Bucky could feel Steve's hurt radiating out behind him even after he was a level up and almost in medical. He pretended that he didn't feel anything, that he was frozen in cryo again, but telling himself not to feel anything was one thing and actually not feeling anything was another.

The emotions, a tangled mess of them, itched under Bucky's skin, and his arms twitched in response. A part of him wanted to swing around and march back down to where he had left Steve, and tell the other man that he wanted to go home, wherever that may be.

But then, Bucky heard commotion down the hall, and thoughts of Steve and going home were thankfully pushed to the corner of his mind.

There was only one person that Bucky knew could cause a ruckus like that.

He picked up his pace, passing several medics, who all wore similar looks of fear when they watched him stride by.

He was vaguely surprised that Fury had simply let him out of the cage and was now letting him wander the hall of his compound, unattended.

But then he remembered the look on Steve's face, the heartbreak and anger on it, and Bucky realized that Fury knew exactly what he was doing. He pushed that thought aside for now; he didn't want to deal with all these unwanted emotions.

Bucky's boots slowed as he reached a familiar room. He hesitantly poked his head through the open doorway, stiffening in quick surprise at the redhead standing next to Clint's bed. Her back was to him, and her arm was stretched out, hand intertwined with Clint's.

The hair on the back of Bucky's neck rose as he silently assessed her; she was more dangerous than her slight body suggested. He would have to watch his back around her, but then again, if Clint knew her, then maybe she wouldn't try to kill him.

Bucky turned his focus to Clint, who was lying on top the white covers of the bed, still dressed in his bloody and rumbled clothes from Lander. The blood had been clumsily wiped away from his face and several white butterfly band aides were on his face, holding the split skin together. His eyes were wide, and his pupils were still too large, but a grin stretched out across his lips when he caught sight of Bucky hovering in the doorway.

"Bucky! Come in, come in." Clint's free hand flapped, gesturing for Bucky to slide further into the room.

Bucky ignored the redhead, who had turned and was giving him a dark glare, even though his instincts were screaming at him to not let her out of his sight.

"Clint," Bucky said, feeling the hot burn of Red's eyes on him. "Your brain still intact?"

"More or less," Clint said. He jerked his chin to Red and then winced at the movement. "Bucky, Natasha. Natasha, Bucky."

"I know who he is." Her voice was cool and it spread an immediate chill in the room.

Bucky shot her a disinterested look, trying to show her that he wasn't intimidated by her (but he kinda was); they had definitely met before, and he had probably tried to kill her. All in all, he didn't blame her for the coldness she was radiating. He was honestly a little impressed; she had to be damn good if she had survived a round with him.

"You know him!" Clint said in a high pitched voice, bringing Bucky's attention back to the present. "Really? Why didn't you introduce us sooner? We're really good friends! Don't glare, Natasha, we are!"

"We're not that good—" Bucky started, but Clint stopped him with a rigid finger jabbed in his direction.

"You shut up! We're basically one step away from exchanging friendship bracelets."

Bucky blinked rapidly at Clint, wondering just how hard he had hit his head against the tree.

"How hard did you hit your head?" Natasha snapped, echoing Bucky's silent question. She let go of Clint's hand and leaned down to peer into his face, blocking most of Clint's shape from Bucky's view.

A second later, Clint's hand appeared as he shoved Natasha away from him. She continued to glare, but gave him back his space.

"Actually not that hard," Clint said, voice lowering two notches. "Just wanted to break up the ice forming in here. You two need to lighten up."

Natasha's eyes narrowed, and her voice dropped dangerously, "That was an act?"

Clint shrugged, settled back against the pillows with a grin. "I'm a better actor than you give me credit for, Nat."

She sputtered at him, while he turned his attention to Bucky, who was attempting to hide his own grin.

"Did you see Steve?"

The grin slid off Bucky's face easily, causing Clint to frown. "What's wrong? He _is_ here, right?"

Bucky could see Natasha's interest rise as they waited for Bucky to answer.

He offered them a shrug. "He's here."

"And?" Clint prompted. "Are we all leaving?"

"You probably are," Bucky said with a nod.

"No, we're leaving together," Clint said, frown deepening.

"Steve doesn't want me," Bucky said, matching the frown. "I told you before, this version of me...this isn't the same one he left behind. It's broken." Bucky's mouth snapped shut; he didn't need to be showing weakness to the redhead. His eyes snapped to hers, but he couldn't read what she was thinking. "I'll stay here, and hold up my end of the bargain with Fury. You should go back with your team."

"You're on my team now," Clint said, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Natasha's hands reached out to steady him as he stood up, swaying. He batted them away, still glaring at Bucky. "You're an idiot."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "So are you."

"I know that," Clint said, stepping away from the bed. "But I also know that Steve came all this way for _you_. Doesn't matter what version. He's here for you."

Bucky's stomach did a weird flip at that. He couldn't sort through the emotions that rippled through him; there were too many and they clouded his mind, so he shoved it all aside for what felt like the tenth time.

"Maybe," Bucky finally said, eyes dropping to the tiled floor. "But I don't—"

He was cut off by a loud wail of alarms that suddenly pierced the air. He flinched back from the noise and red lights that filled the room, replacing the white ones from moments before.

He squeezed his eyes shut, stumbling back two steps. His spine hit the wall with a thump. Behind his eyelids, images of red lights filled his mind. Red lights, red blood, and red mouths that were stretched into wide grins danced across his mind.

A flash of memories flickered in and out of focus. HYDRA using the red lights to condition him before they figured out a better way—

They used metal to beat him until he bled red pools on the cement floor. He used to watch the thick crimson blood swirl away down into a drain that sat in the middle of the room—

The red mouth was the worst. He knew what came next when he saw that man. Everything that made him a person was stripped away when the man came, clutching that—

Bucky wrenched himself out of the surge of memories, eyes snapping open. They flicked around the red room, catching sight of Clint and Natasha standing exactly where they had been before; he had only been out of it for seconds, and they hadn't noticed. They were too busy exchanging looks of confusion with each other to notice that he was trembling and sweating under the flashing red lights.

"What the hell is going on?" Clint called out, wincing against the blaring alarms. He pressed one hand against the side of head, trying to contain the rising headache he was sure to be feeling.

"I'll go find out," Bucky said, and left the room before they could protest.

The hallway was deserted, and an uneasy feeling swirled in his gut. He didn't know what was going on, but he knew when to trust his instincts, and they were telling him that something was wrong.

He paused and almost turned to go back to Clint and Natasha, but then, unbidden, his mind flashed to Steve, and he continued onward.

He came to a stop at the end of the hall, pushing out into the stairwell. His head ticked up and down; one way led upstairs where he would be able to find out what was going on, but the other led downstairs to where Steve was in the basement.

Bucky licked his lips, trying to figure out what to do. If there was danger than someone needed to help Steve and the other two nameless people get out; they couldn't stay down there by themselves.

He took a hesitant step down the stairs, furiously telling himself that it made sense; even if he wasn't going to go with Steve to wherever Steve called home, he needed to make sure the man he had grown up with was alright.

It wasn't sentiment; he didn't care about Steve. He _didn't_.

.

.

Tony was staring into the cage that had held Barnes for who knew how long when the alarms started blaring. It was muffled down in the basement, but they were still loud enough that Tony exchanged a concerned look with Sam, who had stayed with him while Steve and Fury had gone elsewhere to have their conversation about Barnes. Tony was glad that he didn't have to be present for that; he had seen Steve's rage and he hadn't liked it.

Tony was doing his best to sort through his own feelings about what he was going to do. He had finally seen his parents' killer, for however briefly, in the flesh. He had looked into the man's cold eyes and hadn't seen the Bucky Barnes that Steve had told him about. He had only seen the Winter Soldier looking back.

It was that, above all else, that had made Tony's mind up for him.

If Steve still couldn't see it, even after being faced with the emotionless man, then Tony would just have to show it to him. But then again, Steve was a stubborn bastard, and he probably wouldn't listen to reason. He wouldn't believe that the Barnes he knew was gone for good.

No, it was best for everyone if Tony just took care of it himself.

A sick feeling worked its way up Tony's throat, but he resolutely swallowed it down; he would do what he had too.

His eyes went to Sam, who was standing near the double doors, glancing around the room in confusion.

"What's going on?" Tony called out to him, starting forward. He didn't really want to be stuck down here if there was an emergency.

"I have no idea," Sam replied, "but I would suggest we double time it upstairs."

Tony nodded his agreement, quickening his pace.

Before he got to Sam and the exit, the doors sprang open and Bucky Barnes appeared, letting the double doors swing shut behind him.

Sam startled in surprise, dancing backwards to give Barnes plenty of space.

Tony froze, mid-step. He watched as the killer's cold eyes swung around the room, clearly looking for Steve. When he didn't find him, Barnes shifted his gaze to Tony.

"Where's Steve?" His voice sent shivers down Tony's spine. Tony clenched his chattering teeth and he took a careful step forward.

No one had a chance to answer Barnes because a moment later the alarms abruptly shut off and were replaced with a robotic recording, "There has been a breach. All levels are now on lock down."

They weren't given anytime to process the statement or do much more than shift their feet when loud clanging echoed throughout the basement, indicating just how serious the recording was.

Tony couldn't see into the hall, but if he had to guess, he would say that each level was now locked behind heavy blast doors at the stairs. The elevator were probably useless too.

Of course, he had his Iron Man gauntlets on his wrists and if he tried he could probably blast the doors open.

But then Tony realized that he was locked up with his parents' killer. It was a disturbing thought, and Tony's eyes fell onto Barnes, who was staring back at him with his cold blue eyes.

Tony's mouth twisted and he glared back. His fingers curled into fists and he suddenly knew exactly what he was going to do. Sam was the only one down here who could stop him, and that was laughable at best; Sam was a good fighter, but he wouldn't stand a chance against Tony and his gauntlets.

No one was going to stop Tony. It was a freeing thought, and Tony almost laughed.

He took a step forward, feeling Sam's eyes follow the movement from where he was standing.

"Tony..." Sam said quietly. "Don't do it, man."

"Shut up," Tony answered without looking at the other man. His focus was on Barnes, who was squaring up as if he knew what Tony intended. His metal arm—the arm that had killed his father—was clicking and clenching, and if Tony was thinking straight, he might have been worried.

"Who are you?" Barnes said, eyes narrowed as he studied Tony's face.

Tony felt a flare of anger burn into his ice cold resolution.

Tony's lips pulled back, baring his teeth. "You don't know me, but you knew my parents. I'm going to make sure you remember them."

.

.

A/N: Ta-da! The groups have collided and there is ANGST!

This chapter started out really hard to write (I'm still not really happy with the beginning), but it just started to flow after awhile and I'm pretty pleased with how it turned out.  
Let me know what you guys thought about this chapter. I feel like it's been a long time coming and now that it's here, I hope it doesn't disappoint.

Thank you for all the reviews/favorites/follows! I love 'em all.


	13. Chapter 13

[13]

Bucky backed away from the seething man in front of him, watching as red and gold metal slid out of the man's sleeves, covering his wrists and hands.

He wasn't sure what that meant, but he knew it couldn't be anything good.

Bucky could feel the gapping doors behind him, and he slowed his backtrack, leaving his back exposed to the empty hall. He widened his stance and brought up his curled fists; he didn't want to fight this nameless man (he wanted to find Steve), but if the man attacked him, he wasn't going to stand still and let it happen.

"Tony, man, stop!" the second man, who was smart and keeping his distance, called out.

"Shut up, Wilson," Tony—the man had a name now—snapped back, eyes glued to Bucky. He was taking slow steps towards Bucky. He clearly understood that Bucky wasn't his typical opponent, and even with the rage that Bucky could see shimmering under Tony's skin, he wasn't going to just charge him; that wasn't a fight he could win.

Tony's face was etched into a mask of fury, eyes wild. His red and gold hands were both raised, making Bucky think they were weapons of some kind, but without knowing what they did, he didn't know how to defend himself against them.

He eyed Tony, watching for the other man to make the first move.

The anger rolling from Tony was palpable and Bucky could taste it on his tongue, heavy and sickly sweet.

Bucky swallowed it down and then sneered at Tony, clamping his teeth down together with an audible clack.

He had faced worse than this man. The things that HYDRA had done to him was beyond Tony's imagination, and whatever pain he felt, whatever anger he wanted to enact on Bucky wouldn't even come close to the decades of torture from the many hands of HYDRA.

A flicker of images— _red book, red blood, red lights_ —passed across Bucky's eyes, and he shivered. No. This man, Tony, wouldn't come close to those things.

He pulled his focus back to the present. Tony had stopped and was standing still now. His lips were pulled back into a grimace, and his raised hands were perfectly aimed at Bucky, but he still wasn't making a move.

Bucky huffed out a breath and jerked his chin up, flashing his teeth at Tony. "Give me your best shot."

Tony paused, head cocking to the side. "Okay." His palms abruptly glowed white and before Bucky could do much more than give them a confused look, they let out a blast of energy that hit Buck square on the chest, flinging him backwards through the open doors.

He landed heavily on his back, hitting the floor and sliding several feet down the hallway, but not before smacking his head into the tiles.

Black spots danced across his vision, and Bucky could feel warm blood soaking into his dark hair.

The skin on the back of his head must have spilt, but it was probably shallow, and wouldn't do much more than bleed everywhere, but Bucky was still careful as he got to his feet, blinking away the blurry black spots.

His metal arm was whirring and tingling from the blast. The feeling started at his fingertips and worked its way up to his shoulder where the metal was fused with his flesh. He knew that he wasn't actually feeling anything, but the arm had been designed to make him think he could still feel sensations. They had told him it would make him better at his job, and he hadn't been in a position to argue with them (the fucking rubber mouth guard had stopped him from talking back and swallowing his tongue).

Tony wasn't through the doors yet, maybe he was waiting for Bucky to come back to him, so Bucky took a moment to swing his metal arm in a wide circle, trying to kick out the feelings that danced along the panels of metal.

It didn't really work, and Bucky grimaced as he glanced down at his silver arm. It twitched in response, whirring and shifting.

It hadn't let him down before, and it wouldn't now.

Pulling his eyes back up to the doors, Bucky felt a growl working its way up his throat.

He didn't know this man, this Tony, but he was done pretending to be nice.

The man was small and obviously relied on his weapons rather than skill or strength; he was no match for the Winter Soldier.

.

.

The doors were refusing to open under Clint's deft fingers no matter what he tried.

Frustration was rising and against his better judgement, Clint gave the solid blast doors another kick with his boot (it hadn't worked the first time he kicked it and it certainly didn't work this time).

The shock from hitting the heavy metal ran up his leg, adding another injury to his ever growing list, but Clint didn't let the anger on his face morph into pain; he wanted to hold onto the anger, and he was sick of being in pain.

"That's not going to do anything," Natasha said mildly from behind him.

Clint threw her a look over his shoulder and she arched an eyebrow back, her arms crossed firmly over her chest.

"Something is going on—"

"No shit," Natasha cut in.

"—and we have no way of getting out of here to figure it out," Clint continued with a heatless glare. "Bucky is out there, and you can bet the farm that this alarm has to do with him."

"You think Fury would really go through all this just to keep the Winter Soldier?" Natasha asked, eyes narrowing. "He would lock everyone up in the compound to keep the Soldier from escaping?"

"Not Fury," Clint said grimly, swinging his eyes back around to the metal blast doors that were currently blocking the only exit out.

Natasha shifted closer to him, soft boots scuffing against the tiles. "You mean HYDRA? How would they even know that Barnes is here?"

Clint pressed his palm flat against the cool metal and shrugged. "Weston probably."

"Your old handler?"

"When he was trying to kill me again—"

"Excuse me?"

Clint ignored her. "He probably was in contact with some faction of HYDRA and told them that Bucky was alive and working for Fury. He could have easily had a comm in his ear that I didn't see, but my point is, that it wouldn't have been hard to follow the breadcrumbs Weston left to Fury's compound."

"Where's Weston now?" Natasha asked not so delicately.

Clint eyed her, a grin curling on his lips. "He's dead."

Disappointment flared in Natasha's green eyes. "Lucky him."

"Hmm," Clint agreed, knowing that if Natasha had her way, Weston would have died a slow death. "That doesn't matter right now. What matters is that we need to get the hell out of here."

"Yes, but Fury built these blast doors to withstand a lot more than the weapons we have with us." Clint looked at Natasha as she tapped the two Glocks on her hips; she was right, her guns and his pistol wouldn't do much against the heavily metal.

Clint's eyes traveled away from Natasha and the doors to the wall, and then up to the wall to a grey, square vent that was embedded into the pale plaster.

"Who says we have to use the door?" Clint twisted back around to grin at Natasha, nodding excitedly at his solution.

Natasha was already shaking her head. "Clint, no."

"Natasha, yes."

"Don't make me knock you out, Clint."

Clint shrugged. "Give me a better idea, Nat, and we'll do that instead." He raised his eyebrows at her and waited.

She glowered at him, but he knew that he had already won the argument; there was no other way out, and they didn't have time to spend waffling.

Minutes later, Clint was carefully easing him through the vents with Natasha muttering threats at his heels as she slithered into the vent behind him.

.

.

It was HYDRA.

HYDRA was here, in the compound with nothing but Fury's tech people, a few levels of blast doors, and Steve Rogers to keep them from getting what they came for.

Steve's hands were clenched tight at his sides, but from where he was crouched in Fury's office, he couldn't see much.

Fury was behind him somewhere, and Steve could feel the heat of Fury's hand hovering over his shoulder as if he knew that Steve's leg muscles were tightening in anticipation of jumping up and running down the hall to face the men and women of HYDRA on his own.

"Don't do it, Rogers," Fury said, voice low and rough. "They _will_ kill you on sight."

Steve didn't bother looking over his shoulder to where Fury was crouched. His glare was firmly on the pale walls of the hall just outside the office. He couldn't see anything, but he could hear.

The crack of bullets was something that had been imprinted in his mind since the first battle he ever fought in during World War II, but the sound of the bullets hitting flesh with dull thuds had been _burned_ into his memory, and it only meant one thing: HYDRA was clearing out the first level.

Steve's shoes squeaked quietly as he twisted around to pin Fury with dark eyes.

Fury stared back at him, shaking his head. "We can't help them. They're already dead."

"Coward," Steve hissed, glaring at Fury.

Fury's mouth thinned and he blinked slowly at Steve, and Steve almost felt guilty, but then he heard another thud of a body hitting the floor and any guilt he might have felt disappeared back into anger.

"They're here for Bucky, and thanks to your emergency protocol, he's locked downstairs with no way for us to get to him," Steve said lowly.

He didn't say that the emergency protocol was the only reason HYDRA hadn't gotten their hands on Bucky yet. He also didn't mention the dozens of other SHIELD agents that were also locked in their respective levels, who would die unless Steve and Fury stopped the HYDRA agents.

Fury got up from his crouch, back still hunched, and slid around to his desk, punching a few buttons on his computer. His eyebrows lowered as he glared at the glow from the screen.

"Barton and Romanoff are out of medical," he said abruptly.

Steve felt his own eyebrows raise, and wondered how the two SHIELD agents had managed that, but then he remembered that Natasha was the best agent he had ever worked with while on Delta force, and while Clint was an unknown, he had held his own during the Battle of New York and had probably learned a long time ago how to squeeze his way out of tight spots.

"What about Bucky?" Steve asked, almost forgetting that there were people just down the hall that wanted to kill them. He slid around the desk, stopping at Fury's side.

Fury didn't answer, but he didn't have to.

Steve followed Fury's gaze and looked at the computer.

The screen showed several different videos of cameras all around the compound, but the only one that currently mattered to Steve was the one where Bucky and Tony were punching the shit out of each other while Sam shouted at them from the corner of the basement.

Steve's heart jumped to his throat, and his mouth went dry.

"What the _fuck_ does he think he's doing?" Steve snapped through numb lips. His hands slapped down onto the surface of the desk. It creaked dangerously from the force of the blows, but Steve ignored it, and for a long beat, he forgot that HYDRA was just outside killing good men and women, and who would soon find a way down into the basement where their true target waited.

For a moment, all Steve could think was that his best friend, his _only_ friend for so many years, was defending himself from a man that Steve respected and considered a friend, and if Steve or someone else didn't intervene, they were going to kill each other.

Steve's fingers curled around the edge of the wooden desk, splintering it with a low crack.

He was going to lose both of them, and he was helpless to do anything about it.

"Rogers," Fury said lowly, his eyes flicking down to his broken desk, "get your head back into the game."

Steve blinked and carefully unclenched his teeth. He pulled his eyes from the screen, hoping that Bucky could hold himself back from killing Tony and that Tony wouldn't get in a lucky shot and kill Bucky. Hope was all he had while he was stuck with certain death looming around the corner.

"I'm not going to let Stark kill Barnes," Fury said, as if that made a difference to Steve. "There's a way down there that no one else knows about."

Steve stiffened and was suddenly paying attention again. "Where?"

"It's a one man kind of ride down," Fury said, edging around his desk to one of the walls of his office.

Steve watched as Fury's dark hands brushed against the wall and a small door appeared and slid back, revealing a dumbwaiter type of space.

Fury was right: it wouldn't fit both of them; it would be a tight fit for Steve as it was.

Steve's chest tightened and he looked from the space to Fury, who was grimly looking back at him.

"Fury..." Steve started, but Fury shook his head.

"There's no damn time, Captain, get in the hatch and stop Stark from killing your friend."

Steve's boots moved, scraping against the floor. The sound of bullets had stopped and he knew they didn't have much time left, but still he lingered. The anger that burned in his chest at what Fury had done was still there, but it had faded because he knew that by offering him a way out, Fury was offering to die in his place.

HYDRA wouldn't take any prisoners, and this moment might be the last time he saw the other man.

Steve's mouth opened, but no words came out. Instead, he briefly clasped Fury's waiting hand and then shoved himself into the escape hatch.

He was right; it was a tight fit and Steve couldn't turn around to catch a last glimpse of Fury before the door shut and he was plunged into darkness.

There was a soft whine and then the hatch lurked, leaving Steve's stomach somewhere above him as it abruptly started its downward journey.

There was no time to think of what might be waiting for him in the basement, no time to wonder what he was going to lose, no time to question if he had made the right choice by coming here, no time, no time, no time.

It echoed in his mind like a clock, ticking down the seconds to the chaos and possible doom that was waiting for him.

.

.

Tony wasn't thinking. Not anymore. His brain had shut down and all he could see was red.

His eyes were glazed over with the color. The fury that had been building since Rumlow had shown him the truth was finally unleashing itself.

He wasn't scared of who he might hurt with it, or that he might get hurt himself.

All he cared about was punching the blank face of the Winter Soldier to a pulp until only bone and blood remained.

Of course, Barnes wasn't making it easy for him, and Tony knew that he had no chance of achieving what he wanted, not when he wasn't wearing the Iron Man suit. He was woefully ill-equipped for this.

He let out a blast from his palm, watching as Barnes' eyes flicked to it and then dropped to a low crouch, dodging the white blast easily.

Tony's mouth pinched and he danced backwards, pausing to eye Barnes.

The other man wasn't even breathing heavily. His hair wasn't soaked with sweat and the only sign of blood was a smear outside in the hall that had probably come from when Barnes had smashed his head against the tiles.

Tony on the other hand couldn't stop his breath from coming harshly from his mouth and he could feel sweat dripping down his back in streams.

Tony's stomach clenched and he realized that he couldn't hope to win this fight. He never had a chance.

Barnes wasn't attacking him as Tony stalled in the sudden realization, but he was keeping his distance and his eyes were pinned warily to the red and gold gloves.

"You still don't remember, do you?" Tony finally said, voice ripping from his mouth harshly.

Barnes silently shook his head and didn't offer an explanation.

But Sam did. Sam, who Tony had completely forgotten about, shifted back into view, bringing both of their attentions to him.

"He doesn't remember _anything_ , Tony. We have no idea what was really done to him by HYDRA. You can't kill a man for something he doesn't even remember doing."

Tony's head cocked to the side, staring at Barnes. "Can't I?"

"We're going in circles," Barnes snapped, eyebrows jumping down into a glare. "I don't remember your parents, and I don't remember you. I barely remember my name most days. If you want to kill me for it, then get on with it." He paused, jerking his chin defiantly. "Go on. Do it."

Tony's mouth thinned as he glared at Barnes; they both knew that if Tony had the means to do so, he would have already killed Barnes.

"I'm sick of this game," Barnes continued, chest heaving as he let out a low growl. As if this whole thing was some big inconvenience to him. "And I don't have time to deal with your hurt feelings."

Tony's eyes narrowed at that. He had a little more than just hurt feelings bouncing around inside him.

"Something is going on topside and Ste—Rogers and Clint are both up there somewhere," Bucky said. "I'm not leaving them alone to fend for themselves. If you don't want to help, then stay here, but I'm going to find a way out."

Tony blinked; he had forgotten about the lockdown and about Steve.

 _Fuck_ , Steve. What was he going to do when he found out about this display?

Tony spent all of five seconds wondering and then decided he didn't care.

He wasn't done with Barnes. Not by a long shot.

He thrust out both of his hands, twin bursts of energy shooting out towards Barnes, who had been taking hesitant steps backwards when Tony hadn't said anything.

Barnes' eyes widened, but that was all he managed before he was hit square on the chest. He went flying out into the hall again, but this time, Tony followed, determined not to let Barnes get the upper hand again.

He shot Barnes a second time while he was still lying in a heap on the floor. Tony then dropped down, straddling Barnes' chest with all of his weight. He stared down at the dazed blue eyes of the man who had taken everything away from him, trying to see any sign of...well anything in them. But there was nothing to see.

Tony's teeth clacked together and with a low growl he raised his fist, smashing it down against Barnes' face.

Skin split and blood spurted, splattering against the cold floor, but Tony couldn't feel the impact against his metal gloves.

Tony raised his fist again, eyeing the blood that blossomed from Barnes' lips, and his teeth grinded harder together. Barnes' blood was the same color as Tony's rage. The realization hit him and he let out a guttural scream, feeling it tear out of his throat roughly.

He hit Barnes again. And again, and again.

He lost himself in it. The blood and the impact and the way that Barnes' head snapped to the side only to right itself a second later, ready to be hit again.

Distantly, he realized that Barnes was just lying there, taking the hits and not doing anything to stop them. He wasn't fighting back; he was literally taking the beating lying down.

Tony didn't know what that meant, but he didn't care and his fist rose again, but then his eyes caught Barnes' and he paused.

Barnes stared up at him, face a mess of cut skin and red blood. His blue eyes were present and aware and his mouth was pinched tight, and he looked almost...human.

He didn't look like the Winter Soldier.

Tony glared, but that didn't stop Barnes' brokenness from shining up at him.

Now that he saw it, he couldn't ignore the way Barnes' eyes held decade's worth of pain and torture and sorrow. It was beaming up at him, hitting him with the knowledge that Steve had been right all along; Barnes never had a choice, never had known what he was doing or who he was killing. And even now, without even knowing what he had done, Barnes lying down on the cold tiles and was going to let Tony beat him to death.

Maybe he wanted it to be over too.

Maybe he just wanted it to all end, all the grief and pain. Everything.

Looking deeper, Tony saw the truth of his silent question: Barnes was simply waiting for death.

Tony let out a strangled cry and jerked away from him, legs catching on Barnes'. He fell into a tangled heap a few feet away from him, but he didn't make a move to slide further away.

Tony's chest was rising and falling rapidly, but he knew it wasn't from the exertion of hitting Barnes about thirty times.

Barnes shifted and Tony froze, but the other man was only sitting up, leaving a bloody pool behind.

They stared at each other for a long beat, and then Barnes wiped a slow hand across his mouth, smearing the blood into a lopsided grin.

"Are you done?" he asked hoarsely, eyes dark again.

Tony nodded mutely.

"Good."

"Tony!" Steve's voice broke into the stillness of the moment and they both jerked at the sound, looking to where Steve was running down the hall towards them.

Tony didn't know how Steve had gotten downstairs or how much he had seen, but his throat constricted in anticipation of what Steve was going to do.

Steve skidded to a stop, eyes flicking wildly from Barnes' bloody appearance to Tony sitting in a tangle on the floor.

"What...are you alright, Buck?" Steve said, head swinging from one man to the other.

Tony felt a stuttered of indignation that Steve hadn't asked about him, but between the three of them, Barnes was the one bleeding all over the place, and Tony _was_ the cause of it.

"I'm fine," Barnes said, pushing himself up. He swayed and then staggered to lean against the wall, waving off Steve's raised hands.

Tony mirrored the gesture, getting to his feet in slow, stiff movements.

Steve turned to him and his eyes flashed. Tony didn't let his head hang and he watched as Steve jerked forward, curled fist flying at his face.

Steve's knuckles cracked against Tony's cheek and his head snapped to the side from the force of it. His mouth filled with blood; he had cut the inside of his cheek on his teeth.

He spat out the blood and twisted back around, waiting for the next blow, but it didn't come.

Steve still stood in front of him, and his broad chest was heaving with pent up emotions. His eyes were dark and his mouth twisted, but he didn't try to attack Tony again.

"I'm sorry," Tony said lowly.

Steve shook his head. "You knew...you know what he means to me, memories or not, and you still tried to kill him."

Tony's eyes narrowed. "I didn't _just_ decide, Rogers. He took something from me! He isn't the only victim here!"

Steve's mouth opened to retort, but then he seemed to register Tony's words, something that Tony himself was doing too.

Barnes was a victim, and that didn't just go away because of lack of memories or the fact that he had more kills under his belt than anyone Tony knew.

Fuck. Tony couldn't kill him. He had already decided he wouldn't kill him, but now...now he knew that killing him wouldn't do anything. It wouldn't take away the ball of hurt that was swelling in Tony's chest, and it certainly wouldn't take away the pain that Barnes had suffered.

Tony blinked rapidly and looked at Steve, waiting to see what the other man was going to do.

Steve took a shuddery breath and he swallowed roughly. The darkness in his eyes faded and he hesitantly reached a hand towards Tony.

The gesture was so simple, but Tony's hand lift and he grasped Steve's, letting the warmth from Steve's hand to envelope him.

They weren't okay. Not yet, but their friendship wasn't gone like Tony thought it was.

"What's going on up there?" Barnes asked, snapping Tony and Steve out of their moment.

Tony cleared his throat, eyes going over Steve's shoulder to the other man.

Barnes had smeared more of the blood across his face and he looked worse than before, but he wasn't swaying anymore and he didn't look like he was leaning so heavily against the wall.

"It's HYDRA," Steve said shortly, turning on his heel to face Barnes. "They're here for you, Bucky."

Barnes nodded as if he had expected this. "How many?"

"I couldn't see, but probably thirty men."

"At least," Barnes said with a small shrug. "If they want to bring me in, they have to have at least that many." He frowned and added in a quiet mumble, "Unless they brought..." He froze, eyes pinned onto nothing that Tony could see.

"Unless?" Tony prompted, vaguely aware that Sam had appeared looking haggard and pissed.

Barnes didn't answer, but he didn't have to. A booming voice echoed through the loudspeakers. It wasn't a robotic woman this time, but it wasn't a German voice that Tony had automatically associated with HYDRA either.

"Soldier?" The voice was strong, and American, but that wasn't important. "We know that you're here. We can see you."

Tony's eyes immediately went to the small black camera in the corner of the hall.

"We only want you to come back with us. You don't belong here with these people." The voice paused. "You need to come home."

Tony looked back to Barnes, watching his shoulders tense and his head bow.

"You are nothing without us, Soldier. You have no purpose, no life without HYDRA."

"That's not—," Steve started, but the voice continued.

"You are the Fist of HYDRA. Come quietly and you won't be punished."

Tony snorted quietly. What a lie that was. He knew he was being flippant, but if he wasn't that, than he would actually start thinking about what they were going to do to Barnes and he didn't want to do that.

He watched Barnes, suddenly afraid of what the man might do.

Barnes' head raised and he looked up to the camera. For a long beat he didn't move and then slowly he raised his metal hand.

Tony's heart thudded against his chest as he remembered how that hand had taken his father from him.

Barnes made a fist and then carefully eased up a single finger, baring his teeth into a bloody grin.

Tony blinked and a thin laugh escaped his mouth.

There was a crackle from the speakers as the voice disappeared.

Barnes let his hand drop and he turned to face Steve and Tony again.

"Someone better take that camera out," he said lowly.

Tony didn't answer, but shot a blast from his palm, hitting the black camera in a burst of smoke and sparks.

"They'll have a backup plan," Barnes continued. "And they will kill everyone."

"We're not going to let that happen," Steve said.

Tony nodded his agreement, but then the voice was back.

"You've left us no choice, Soldier. Remember that."

A burst of static echoed and then a new voice came on. This one was older and Russian.

"Soldat?"

Barnes froze. His shoulders bowed and shifted as if the voice had put an actual weight on him.

"Soldat, do you remember me? Do you remember our words?" the voice paused. "It is no matter. I will tell them to you again."

"Fuckfuckfuck," Barnes spat out and then sprinted out of the hall back into the dark basement, but not before the voice continued.

It uttered out a word that Tony didn't recognize, but the word sent Barnes tripping over his black boots and he fell to the ground, both hands slapping the cement. He shoved himself back up, but two more words followed in quick succession, sending him back to his knees.

He howled as if in physical pain, clamping both hands to the sides of his head over his ears.

Tony, Steve and Sam had followed him, but they didn't know what was happening or how they could help. They stood helplessly over Barnes' shuddering heap of limbs, shouting at each other to do something.

And the words continued.

.

.

A/N: I'm SO sorry for the delay with this chapter. I had something else that I had to write first and then real life happened and then I lost track of the characters and their voices for this fic. It took me way longer than I would have liked to find them again and then to figure out what was supposed to happened in this chapter. I also wanted this to be longer because I know you guys have been waiting for a fair amount of time, so I just decided to end it.

I don't even really know what's happening in this chapter. I feel like I still didn't get the characters and their voices back so everyone might seem a little OOC, and I also kinda just decided how things were going to play out in the spur of the moment. Plus, I'm sure there are mistakes all over the place. I've done a quick read through but I wanted to get it posted tonight. Hopefully it's still enjoyable and readable.

Okay, so just a heads up for the next chapter. I've been working an insane amount and haven't had a lot of time recently, so I don't know how much time I'm going to have to write. I'm also getting my wisdom teeth pulled in like two weeks and I'm having major anxiety about that (I guess that doesn't really pertain to my writing other than it's been taking up a lot of my brainspace) so the next chapter might take a while to get written and posted. Sorry, folks.

In other news, I'm still so thankful for everyone reading, reviewing, etc. You guys are the best.


	14. Chapter 14

[14]

The only sound in the vent was Natasha's soft breathing and the faint slap of their palms against the vent's metal floor.

Clint could feel years' worth of grime and dust pressing into his skin and he knew his knees were dragging twin trails of clean surface behind him.

Any noise that might have been sounding outside was muffled and Clint wasn't sure what was happening now. Who knew why the alarms had gone off or why the lockdown had been initiated. Despite that, his heart was steady against his ribcage; he knew that he would get to where he needed to go in due time. Hopefully, he wouldn't be too late.

He didn't know exactly how far they had crawled, but he could feel the gentle swell of air against his skin and knew that they were getting close to the edge.

"Why do you like him so much?" Natasha's voice sounded suddenly, echoing faintly through the close quarters.

"Who?" Clint asked, but he knew who she was talking about; he just liked to be obtuse sometimes.

Her hand smacked the back of his leg, showing just what she thought about that. "You know who."

Clint chewed on his bottom lip and didn't answer her right away, squinting ahead into the gloom.

It was hard to describe the relationship that he had cultivated with Bucky. He hadn't known him long, and he would never know him as long as Steve had, but despite that, Clint couldn't help but feel like he had formed a close bond with Bucky that wouldn't be easily broken.

Clint felt like he and Bucky were the same in some respects. Sure, Clint had never been taken as a prisoner of war and then tortured and used as a weapon against his will, but he knew what it was like to have his free will taken away.

Loki had stripped Clint of everything, and Clint had felt...nothing. It happened and he didn't care. Not until he woke up, and then everything that he had done came rushing back.

The blood of his fellow SHIELD agents and innocents he had spilled only served as a reminder of who he really was and would always be: a killer.

Before SHIELD, he had killed, with his free will intact this time, and hadn't stopped to think of what his actions were doing to those around him.

He had become numb to the blood and innocent lives that were being ripped away from their families. His hands had been drenched in the souls of the people he had killed, and _he hadn't cared_.

But then Coulson showed up, and forced him to see. To _really_ see what he was doing, and things had changed. He had changed. But the lives of those he had taken, and all the memories that came with them, still lurked in the back of his mind, waiting for him to let his guard down so they could haunt him again.

So yeah, Clint figured he knew a little of what Bucky was feeling coming out of HYDRA's control.

"Clint?" Natasha asked quietly.

Clint shook his head, focusing back onto the present. He shrugged awkwardly from his hunched position.

"We're buds," he finally said. "I didn't have anyone else."

The air suddenly got thick with Natasha's guilt. Clint could taste it on his tongue and feel hovering over his shoulders. He let his head droop slightly; he didn't want her guilt. She wasn't the one that stopped calling. He had made the choice to work with Fury after what had gone down in D.C. and out of all the Avengers, she was the only one that he knew truly cared about him and would never have abandoned him.

"It's not like I was going to hang out with Fury," Clint said lightly, concentrating on sliding forward and not the woman behind him. "And when I asked Maria to play a game of poker she shut the door on my face. Something about me cheating all the time, but I don't know what she's talking about. Bucky was the only one around."

Natasha was silent on his heels, but her guilt was still clouding the air, choking them both.

Clint sighed quietly, and opened his mouth to crack a joke; they didn't need to be dealing with these emotions right now. There was too much going on.

"Don't," she finally said, beating him to it. "Don't pretend like you're not hurt that we didn't come find you before this."

"We?" he said, eyes pinned to the darkness that stretched out in front of him. "I know you, Nat. You didn't do anything wrong. Neither did the others. They just...don't really know me, and I don't blame them for that. It's my own fault for not trying harder. After New York, I didn't really stick around, did I? I just took off to lick my wounds on my own and then...I just didn't come back."

"Clint—"

"No, it's okay. But this brings me back to Bucky. He feels like a friend, and not just someone that I was forced to work with. Don't get me wrong, I like Steve and the others, but we were kinda forced together," Clint said.

He opened his mouth to continued, but the vent's floor suddenly disappeared. He stopped his crawl, thankful for the slow pace he had set, and peered over the ledge into the vent that led down to the next level.

"We're going down," Clint said over his shoulder. He could just make out Natasha's red hair and the paleness of her features in the dark. Her teeth flashed at him and her chin dipped.

"Take the lead, Barton."

Clint shifted his position so that he was sitting with his legs hanging over the edge. He took a shallow breath and then eased himself down into the black hole.

.

.

Bucky was on the ground now. He was pressed against it, skin digging into the cement and eyes flicking up and down, seeing things no one else could.

His whole body was shaking, ripples of phantom pains gripping him tight and not letting go.

And Steve was helpless.

He couldn't do anything.

He didn't even _know_ what was going on.

All he knew was that the Russian words blaring from the speakers were doing something to Bucky that hadn't been mentioned in the thin file Natasha had given him all those months ago. It had talked about various forms of "conditioning" that had been done to Bucky, but nothing about this.

Judging from the looks of horror on Tony and Sam's faces they had no clue about what was happening either. This only caused Steve's panic to skyrocket; two of the smartest people he knew, and no one knew what to do.

"Do something!" Steve yelled, eyes wide as he stared at Bucky's writhing body. He didn't know who he was talking to or what was supposed to be done, but what else could he do? Useless words were all he had.

He raked his hands through his hair, jerking at the strands. Ignoring the sharp pain that come from his head, Steve let go and dropped to his knees. His hands hovered over Bucky; he didn't know if he should touch his friend, if he should try to wake Bucky up.

"Steve..." Sam said behind him, trailing off.

Steve ignored him. He reached down, placing a hesitant hand on Bucky's shoulder.

Bucky didn't react to the touch.

"Aw, Buck..." Steve said, fingers digging into Bucky's jacket. His helplessness was choking him, and he suddenly felt like a kid again when he had to watch his father die from the poison in his lungs, while he and his mother could only watch.

Bucky had been there for him then too.

Steve squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't know what to do, but he wasn't leaving Bucky to deal with this alone. No matter what happened.

Just as suddenly as the words had started, they stopped. The echo of them rang throughout the room and in Steve's ears.

His eyes sprang open and his breath ripped out his chest in short gasps. Steve sat back on his heels, frozen in a hunched position over Bucky's still shuddering form.

He kept his hand on Bucky's shoulder as if he could do something to help, but then the voice spoke again.

"Soldat?"

Bucky froze, eyes snapping into focus.

"Bucky?" Steve said, hope rising in his chest despite the knowledge that whatever was happening wasn't finished. "Are you back with us?"

Bucky didn't answer. Instead, he abruptly sat up, shedding Steve's hand with the movement, and a second later his body unfolded and he stood up.

Steve copied the movement, slowly getting to his feet. He stood in front of Bucky, feeling anxious waves coming from Tony and Sam behind him.

Steve swallowed, throat bobbing. "Bucky?"

But Bucky's eyes were pinned over his shoulder, looking at nothing. His mouth was pressed into a thin line and his hands were down at his sides in a relaxed manner that didn't fool Steve for a second; Bucky could kill them all in seconds if he wanted. The question was: did he want to or did someone else want it?

"Soldat?" the voice was impatient now.

Bucky blinked and suddenly spoke, "готовы соблюдать."

"What the hell?" Sam muttered behind Steve.

"English now, Soldier," the voice said.

Bucky's head cocked to the side and he blinked slowly. "Ready to comply."

A shiver rippled down Steve's spine at the cold words and what they meant.

"He's gone," Steve said through numb lips. He swung his head around to look at Tony and Sam with frantic eyes.

Sam's mouth pinched and he didn't quite seem to grasp what Steve was saying, but Tony did. His eyes widened and he reached out to snag Sam's jacket with his gauntlet covered hands, pulling him along as he backtracked.

"Steve—," Tony started, his free hand flapping at Steve to follow.

"Hang on," Steve snapped and turned back to Bucky, jerking in surprise as he caught Bucky's blue eyes staring directly at him.

There was nothing of the Bucky that Steve knew in those eyes. They were cold as sharp steel and blank as a white page. They were the eyes of a killer. They were the eyes of the Winter Soldier.

Steve's heart gave a painful thump against his ribs and his throat was suddenly dry.

"Buck?" he said hoarsely. "It's me. It's Steve." This wasn't going to work and Steve knew it. It hadn't worked up on the helicarrier and Steve had given it his all. He had almost died for it (and he would gladly die if it meant releasing Bucky from the cage of his own mind).

The thing was, Steve couldn't live with himself if he just turned tail and ran, leaving Bucky behind to be used by the HYDRA forces amassed upstairs.

Besides, Steve had never run from a fight before and he wasn't going to start now.

"Soldier?" Bucky's chin lifted and he looked to where Steve knew a camera must sit. "Kill them—No, kill the other two. Leave the Captain alive."

There was a crackle and the speaker fell silent once more.

Steve's mouth twisted; he didn't know why HYDRA would want him alive, but it couldn't be good. He also knew that they wouldn't just be sitting on their hands upstairs; HYDRA was on their way downstairs to come collect their property, and they would be here sooner rather than later.

Bucky didn't say anything to the nameless voice, but his eyes found Steve's again.

Steve swallowed roughly, taking a short step back. He held up his hands, palms facing Bucky. "Bucky, hey—"

Bucky's metal hand shot out, but Steve was expecting that and his back curved as he leaned away from the shove. Bucky's fingers brushed Steve's shirt, touch feather-light.

Bucky's eyebrows drew down into a frown, but that was the only sign of his displeasure.

He stalked forward again while Steve rapidly backed away.

"Bucky, you've gotta stop!" He knew the words were pointless, but that didn't stop them from spewing from his lips in a torrent.

"Steve!" Tony's voice sounded, and Steve jerked around to where Tony and Sam were standing just under the doors' threshold.

Tony's hands were up and both palms were glowing white, high pitched whining sounding from them.

"Get out of the way!" Tony yelled with a jerk of his chin.

Steve started to sidestep, but he had made a mistake looking away from Bucky, even if it was for just a second.

Fingers grasped the back of his shirt and he was suddenly jerked backwards, straight into Bucky's chest.

A short huff of air burst out of Steve as Bucky's metal arm wrapped around Steve, holding him close. He could feel Bucky's shallow breaths of air tickling his neck, and for a brief moment Steve had no idea what Bucky was doing.

But it became abundantly clear a second later.

"Fuck!" Tony snapped, hands shifting as he tried to get a clear shot at Bucky, but Steve was his human shield and Tony wasn't going to fire in case he hit Steve instead.

"Bucky..." Steve started. He could feel Bucky's heart pounding away at a steady rhythm and the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, that was enough for Steve to remind himself that his Bucky was still inside. It was enough to remember that he needed to keep fighting.

Steve jabbed his elbow backwards, hitting Bucky's gut.

A whoosh of air exited Bucky's lips and he hunched slightly from the impact, but he didn't let go of Steve.

But the movement gave Steve enough space for him to curl forward and grab the arm that encircled his chest. Clutching the metal forearm tightly, Steve used brute strength to heave Bucky up and over him.

Bucky landed heavily on the cement, and Steve swore he heard it crack under the impact.

Steve only had a moment to feel a swell of victory that he had put the Winter Soldier on his back before he was flying forward too.

They had still been connected by their hands and Bucky had taken full advantage of that, twisting his hand around to grasp Steve and send him through the air.

Steve landed and skidded across the floor, closer to Tony and Sam than he would have liked.

He sprang to his feet, shaking off the fall with a twist of his head.

Bucky was already on his feet and was marching towards them, but this time Tony was ready and twin blasts from his palms hit Bucky, sending him through the air once again. He went further than before, hitting the glass cage that he had spent the past month in. It shuddered from the blow, but to Steve's surprise, didn't crack.

Steve blinked at it for a second, and then jerked around to face Tony. "The cage."

Tony, already knowing what Steve was thinking, nodded grimly back, and together they ran towards Bucky.

.

.

Clint's boots hit the floor of the vent with twin thumps, louder than he would have liked.

"Watch it, Barton," Natasha said above him.

Clint shifted forward a little, and she slithered down behind him. Her breath tickled his bare neck and she leaned forward to steady herself with her hands on his shoulders.

He knew that she didn't actually _need_ to steady herself, and that the touch was more likely for him. To remind him that she was with him and that whatever was waiting for them, they would face together.

He didn't look at her, but Clint lifted his hand and tapped it against the top of hers that still rested on his shoulder. The warmth of her skin was fleeting, but Clint appreciated it nevertheless.

"Let's go, Romanoff," he said, and then dropped down to his knees to crawl into the final vent that would lead to the hall just outside the room that housed Bucky's cage.

It wasn't far to the end; Clint could see light shining through the flittered covering. It didn't offer much to see by, but Clint could now hear a little more of what was happening outside.

There were shouts and the dull sound of flesh hitting flesh.

Clint swallowed and picked up his crawl. He felt Natasha do the same behind him.

When they reached the end, Clint twisted into a sitting position, boots hovering over the vent's cover.

A heavy kick sent the cover flying. Clint followed a second later, dropping down into the well-lit hallway.

His eyes flicked to his right and then left, and his hand had already taken out his pistol, which felt woefully inadequate compared to his compound bow.

"I've got your six," Natasha breathed out, and as one they set off towards the double doors, ignoring the stairwell that wouldn't let anyone through anyway; the blast door coverings were still fixed in place, meaning that whatever had triggered the lockdown in the first place wasn't over yet.

Clint's breathing was even and controlled, and Natasha was a comforting presence behind him. It had been too long since they had moved like this, worked like this, but Clint could never forget how they worked together, like two jagged pieces of glass that somehow fit together.

Clint pulled his focus to the moment, easing himself slowly through the open double doors, hanging close to the wall. It was dark inside, but it didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on.

Steve and Tony were fighting Bucky hand to hand. The lack of guns or any kind of weapon was evident by their close quarters, but Clint could see Tony's gauntlets flaring to life, shooting blasts of energy at Bucky, who was managing to dodge most of them.

Bucky didn't have his weapons, Clint supposed he must have been stripped of his rifle, pistols, and knives after they got back, but his metal arm was more than adequate for almost any type of fight.

Steve didn't have his shield either, but that wasn't stopping him from literally using his body as a human shield whenever Bucky set his eyes on Tony.

A flare of anger burst in Clint's chest, and he wondered exactly how long it took Steve to decide to fight his oldest friend.

But then Clint actually looked at Bucky.

Bucky was fighting with more force and control than Clint had ever seen. It was almost machine-like with how precise his movements were. And not just that, but the blue eyes glinting through the shadows definitely didn't belong to the man that Clint had come to know.

He swallowed roughly; that wasn't his friend. Not anymore.

"Shit," he muttered, lowering his pistol slightly.

"That's the Winter Soldier," Natasha added needlessly behind him.

"And he's going to kill them unless we do something," a new voice broke into Clint's focus.

It startled him, but he didn't show that when he swung his pistol around to jab it into the face of a man he didn't know. The man was African American with a slight build, although Clint didn't doubt there was power hidden beneath his civilian clothes.

The man raised his hands, but didn't back off. The pistol in his face apparently scared him less than the fight going on in the middle of the room.

"Sam," Natasha said, smoothly stepping forward to stand between the two of them. She reached a hand up, and pressed it against Clint's pistol, forcing it to aim at the ground. She jerked her chin at Clint. "Sam, this is Barton."

Sam eyed Clint, nodding, but that was all the greeting that time allowed for.

A shout rang out through the room and they all jerked around to see Steve fly into the open door of the cage—Clint wondered when Fury had opened it, but knew that wasn't important. Steve slid across the tiled floor, smacking into the steel toilet in the corner with his back.

"Aw, fuck," Sam hissed and jerked forward.

Clint watched as Bucky turned his eyes on Tony, no emotion in them at all. Not even a glimmer of victory that he had finally gotten his prey alone, because that was what Tony was, Clint realized. Tony was prey and Steve had merely been in the way. He wondered what that meant.

Tony was backpedaling rapidly, shooting off energy blasts as quickly as he could. His aim was wild and Bucky didn't have to try very hard to shift out of the way.

Clint didn't think, just reacted. He ran forward, close on Sam's heels.

"Bucky!" he shouted, knowing that words were useless against whatever had been done to his friend.

Bucky jerked a little at the sound of Clint's voice, tearing his eyes off of Tony for a millisecond. He gave Clint a cold, unknowing look before turning his attention back to Tony.

He reached his metal hand out, going for Tony's neck. His fingers were inches away when he was suddenly jerked backward.

Clint reached Tony's side and watched as Steve, with his forearm around Bucky's throat, manhandled him away from Tony and into the cage.

Bucky's body bucked in Steve's grip and his eyes rolled as he looked for a way out. His boots scrabbled against the tiles, leaving dark marks in their wake, but he couldn't get out of Steve's embrace.

Steve swung Bucky around, throwing him heavily to the ground before turning on his heel and running out of the cage. Once outside, he twisted his body around and his palm hit the glass, the almost invisible door hissed, closing Bucky inside.

Bucky had rolled twice after Steve threw him and was on his feet in seconds, but he was too late to catch Steve and stop him from shutting him inside. He hit the glass full force, slamming his shoulder into it.

The glass shuddered, but didn't break.

Clint let out a low breath, watching as Bucky shoved off from the wall and started stalking back and forth, his eyes on Tony and Sam, who stood next to Clint.

"What the hell is going on?" Clint said, turning to face Steve, whose chest was heaving. He was bleeding freely from a small cut on his hairline, but otherwise looked uninjured.

"Clint?" Steve said, brushing an impatient at the cut. He managed to only smear the blood across his skin and into his blonde hair. "Are you okay?"

Clint's eyebrows rose. "Am I okay? What about you? You're the one who was going toe to toe with the Winter Soldier."

Steve waved a hand, but didn't turn to glance at his friend locked in the cage behind him. Clint understood the urge not to look at the emotionless shell of a man who used to be Bucky.

"I'm fine," Steve said, dismissing Clint's concern easily. He clearly wasn't, but Clint didn't push it.

"Well, I'm not," Tony interjected. "He almost killed me."

Clint turned his gaze to Tony. The other man had been using a light and almost joking tone, but Clint could see the faint shudders that still rippled through Tony's body. It could have been adrenaline, but almost getting killed by the Winter Soldier was probably the main cause of it.

"That's not important," Clint said, giving Tony a sly grin. Tony's mouth popped open in outrage, but Clint's smile was sliding right off his face as he looked at Bucky through the glass. "What's important is figuring out how the hell we get our Bucky back."

He could feel Steve's surprised eyes on him, but he ignored that. He didn't much feel like explaining to the Captain how he had developed a friendship with Bucky. Natasha was one thing, but Clint wasn't big into the whole 'share with the group' thing.

"We don't even know what happened exactly," Sam said, arms crossed tightly over his chest. "The HYDRA agent said some words over the speakers and—"

"He was their puppet again," Natasha broke in.

Clint gave her a sidelong look, but she wasn't looking at any of them. Her eyes were on Bucky, but he wasn't sure that she was even really seeing him.

He swallowed, reaching out a hesitant hand to grip her elbow. She startled minutely under his touch, but didn't shake him off. Her head turned and she caught his eye. Clint blinked slowly at her, asking without words if she was okay. She gave him a small nod, and Clint knew that was all he was going to get out of her; she was strong and this reminder of her past wasn't going to break her.

"What do you know about it?" Steve said, turning towards her with urgent eyes. "How can we break him out of it?"

If Natasha knew a way, she wasn't able to share with the team.

Loud clanging echoed through the room from outside in the hall, and seconds later heavy boots sounded.

"Shit." Clint didn't know who said it, but the sentiment was shared with everyone.

"They're here," Steve said, eyes flicking around the room. He was looking for a way out of this, but there was no way out. Clint knew that. He had known it the moment he saw Bucky's hollow eyes.

There wasn't enough time to figure out how to break Bucky free from the trance HYDRA had put him in _and_ find a way to save the compound from HYDRA.

Clint shifted forward, bringing his pistol up. Natasha fell into line with him, her face a grim mask of determination.

"We can't just—," Tony started, reaching out to tug at Clint's shoulder. He shook him off easily, and gave Tony a dark look.

"We aren't getting out of here alive," Clint bit out through clenched teeth. " _Fuck_."

His grip tightened on his pistol and he lined up a shot for when the HYDRA agents inevitably marched through the double doors. Behind him, Bucky's fist pounded against the glass, but Clint didn't turn to look at him. He didn't know what he would see, but he knew that he wasn't any more prepared to face the Winter Soldier than he was only minutes ago.

An agent appeared, leading the way with an assault rifle tucked up against his shoulder. Clint didn't give him a chance to get a bead on them. His bullet hit the man's head, snapping it back and sending him crumbling to the ground.

"Behind the glass," Steve said suddenly. "It'll give us some protection."

Clint nodded, eyes still on the doors that were lined with shadows of more men, who were now thinking twice before coming through.

They moved as a group, circling around the cage while Bucky followed them, until they were secured behind the glass. Clint and Natasha both took one side, hugging tight to the cold wall.

Another head appeared around the corner of the doors. Natasha took him out and he joined his fellow agent on the floor.

"This isn't going to work," Tony said somewhere behind Clint. "We need a new plan."

"Then get on it," Clint snapped, not bothering to direct this to the man himself.

He knew they couldn't stay behind the glass forever. There were too many HYDRA agents and they definitely didn't have enough ammo to take them all out.

Clint had been in some hopeless situations before, but this one was looking particularly grim, and he wasn't sure how they were going to make it out intact, or if they were even going to make it out at all.

"Please, no more shooting," a voice suddenly called out, echoing throughout the room. "We've come to talk."

The voice had a Russian accent, but his English was good, making Clint think that this man had spent a significant amount of time in the States.

"Sure you do!" Tony yelled back. "Is that before or after you have your pet kill me."

Pet? Clint's lips twisted, but he didn't correct Tony; there just wasn't time.

The voice laughed and then said, "I'll admit, that was hasty of me. It has been some time since I've had control over the Soldier, and I've forgotten how it feels to command him."

As far as excuses went that one wasn't very good, and not just that but it was disturbing in a way that made Clint's stomach do a little flip.

His eyes narrowed as a large group of HYDRA agents started to shuffle into the room, forming a protective circle around a man. The man didn't look special, but he was probably the Russian and the only one who knew how to control Bucky. In other words: he was important.

Clint immediately turned his pistol on that man, holding his sights steady as he lined up a headshot.

The man's head turned and he eyed Clint, a small smile playing on his lips. He didn't look concerned that there was a gun on him, and then before Clint could squeeze the trigger he dipped down into the crowd of men and women, disappearing from sight.

"Shit," Clint muttered, angrily shifting his aim to one of the lackeys, guarding the Russian.

"I propose a truce, or rather an exchange," the man called out, hidden from sight in the crowd of agents, who had all stopped moving just a few feet from the doors.

Clint didn't look over his shoulder to see the reaction of his team behind him, but the words filled him with a sinking feeling.

"Spit it out," Tony said. His voice was strained, but he hid it well and Clint probably wouldn't have heard it if he wasn't listening for it.

"Let us leave with our Soldier and we _will_ leave your compound. You and your people will not be harmed." He paused. "Simple and easy."

"Absolutely fucking not," Clint snarled immediately, while Steve snapped out, "No way. We're not handing Bucky over to them."

"Then you will all die," the man continued as if he had heard the hissed words. "You have no reason to believe me, but we will leave without killing anyone if you give us what we came here for."

Clint shoved away from the glass, pulling himself behind the bulk of it. He shot Natasha a look from her side, and she gave him a small nod, telling him that she would keep an eye on HYDRA while he yelled at any of them who were thinking of handing Bucky over.

His eyes flowed from one face to the next; it was easy to see who was considering the offer and who wasn't.

Clint zeroed in on Tony.

"Stark," he said, slipping into the less personal surname that he had briefly abandoned after the Battle of New York. "You are not giving them Bucky."

Tony tore his gaze from Steve and eyed Clint, a strange look flitting across his face.

"When did you become such buddies with the Winter Soldier?"

"I'm not friends with the Winter Soldier," Clint said. "I'm friends with Bucky Barnes."

Shock darted across Tony's face, but then he snorted. "Well, your friend isn't home right now." He jerked his chin at the cage where Bucky stood, staring at them with hooded eyes.

"Do you understand what they're going to do to him if you hand him over?" Clint said, ignoring Tony's statement. "They will take any progress he made on becoming his own person again and replace it with their emotionless assassin, and they won't let Bucky back. They'll keep him as the Winter Soldier forever."

Tony opened his mouth, but Steve broke in, "Tony, if you give Bucky to them, what's to stop them from sending him after us? Or anyone else for that matter? You give Bucky to them, and you're giving them back their prize weapon."

Clint could hear the disgust in Steve's voice at describing his friend as a weapon, but there was no disputing that it was the truth.

Tony's eyes slid to Steve's. "You're making a great case for why we should just kill him."

Clint's eyes narrowed and he saw Steve's jaw jump as the captain clenched his teeth.

Tony rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to kill him."

It wasn't convincing, but they didn't have time for this.

"We need a plan," Clint said instead of addressing Tony's words. His eyes shifted from Tony to the cage. He looked past Bucky to the men that stood on the other side.

"I'm not saying we just give Barnes back to them," Tony snapped, anger coloring his words for the first time. "I'm saying, we put a tracker on him, send him out, hunt down the whole HYDRA cell and wipe them out."

Typically, Clint would wholeheartedly agree to this type of plan—hell, if he was the one in the hot seat, he would have said _fuck it_ and let himself by captured to lead the good guys to the enemy base.

But this was different. This was HYDRA. This was _Bucky_.

If they got him again, they weren't going to let him go. They would put him in a fridge in the middle of nowhere and not take him out until the Avengers or, more importantly Steve Rogers, were nothing more than a memory.

"Steve," Sam said, and Clint squeezed his eyes shut briefly; he knew what Sam was going to say. "There isn't any other way out of this. Everyone is going to die if we don't do what they want, but if we do what Tony says, we still have a way to go after them."

"Sam..." Steve said, voice cracking. "I can't do that. You know that I can't."

"People are going to die, Rogers," Tony said, arms crossing over his chest defensively.

"Then let them die!" Steve snarled, rounding back on Tony. He immediately paled and then shook his head. "I didn't mean that."

Tony was staring at Steve with dark eyes. "I think you did."

Silence stretched over them, pulling tight and thin. Clint's eyes flicked from Steve to Tony, arms tensing in anticipation of what might be coming next.

But even he wasn't quite prepared for when Tony stepped forward and slapped his gauntlet covered hand against Steve's unprotected neck. Clint knew from experience that Tony had hit it just right to send Steve into sudden and complete unconsciousness.

Steve crumbled to the ground, but didn't hit it heavily; Tony caught him with both hands and helped him down gently.

When he looked up, regret clung to him like a coat, but he clearly hadn't see any other way.

"What?" he demanded when he caught Clint's eyes. Clint stared back for several beats, and then said, "You might have taken Steve down, but I'm still here, big guy." A dark grin slipped onto his lips. "I've made my stance on this very clear."

Tony's regret disappeared, replaced by anger. "What is it with you two? Can't you see that if we don't give Barnes over to them, we're as good as killing everyone in this building? Hell, Barnes is has good as killing them!"

"We can figure out another way—,"

"We don't have enough time."

"—you just don't give a shit about Bucky so you don't want to see a different option," Clint finished, not bothering to acknowledge Tony's point.

Tony's eyes flashed and he jerked his chin at Clint. "Romanoff, put a leash on your bird."

Clint's mouth thinned and he almost forgot about the group of HYDRA agents behind him as he took a step closer to Tony. He gripped his pistol tightly by his side, but he raised his free hand to grab a handful of Tony's shirt, jerking him forward so they were inches from each other.

"You don't know me well, Stark, but believe me, I will not hesitate—,"

"Clint." Natasha was suddenly at Clint's side. She tugged at his arm, forcing him to let go of Tony, who was sneering back at Clint, daring him to continue.

Natasha shifted so that she was standing in front of Clint, and reaching up with both hands, she gripped Clint's face, making him look only at her.

Clint's breath was coming out harshly, but he did what she wanted and focused on her.

"Calm down," she said softly, "we're going to get through this, but killing each other isn't going to help."

"I'm only going to kill him," Clint said, eyes flitting momentarily to Tony over her shoulder.

A ghost of a smile flitted across her lips. "I've wanted to do the same, but we need him."

"No—,"

"Listen to me, Clint," Natasha interrupted, "I agree with Tony and Sam."

Clint's eyes widened and for the first time he realized that Natasha wasn't holding her guns anymore. Her fingers dug into his skin as he tried to move.

"It's going to be okay. Don't fight, Clint, you know that I can take you down, if I have to."

"Nat, please don't do this," Clint said, trying to shake his head, but her hands held firm.

"I'm sorry."

"Fuck," Clint muttered and then shoved her away with his empty hand, pulling his head free from her grasp.

She danced backwards gracefully, but it was already too late; Clint had felt the pinprick of a needle on his skin, injecting him with one of Natasha's fast acting sedatives.

He could already feel the drug coursing through his veins, and he didn't know if it was cruelty or if it was the only one she had, but he recognized the effects of this particular drug and he knew that all it did was make his limbs useless while keeping his mind completely aware and awake.

He folded to the ground, falling onto his side with his back to the cage. He eyed the feet of the others, but he was unable to do anything but blink angrily at them.

Clint could hear Tony calling to the HYDRA agents, but he stopped listening as he tried to think of a way out of this.

There weren't many options. Not when he was basically useless. He tried to clench his teeth, but even that didn't work. He could have cried in frustration, but he snapped back into reality a second later when Tony's voice rose.

"That wasn't part of the deal! What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Tony, get back," Natasha said, voice strained. "They will kill us if you don't."

Don't what? Clint couldn't see shit. All the action was happening behind him.

A moment later, he felt a boot dig into his spine and suddenly he was being rolled onto his back.

He squinted up at the unfamiliar face. It was one of the HYDRA goons, but not the important one.

"What about him?" the man said above him. He jabbed a finger down at Clint, looking to someone else for an answer.

"Unimportant. Leave him with the others."

The man above him disappeared.

The sound of voices and the cage being opened were the only things Clint could hear. Boots shuffled around him and he heard a command in Russian, directed at Bucky and then minutes later, the sounds fell silent.

"Sam—," Tony bit out.

"I'm already on it," Sam said, and then there was the sound of boots pounding against the floor.

Clint still couldn't see anything but the ceiling, but he figured Sam was running after the retreating HYDRA agents.

A boom suddenly shook the room, and Clint nodded internally; of course they would block the only exit by lobbing a grenade or two behind them. The longer it took Clint and the others to get after them, the more time HYDRA had to get far away from SHIELD. This was escaping and leaving the enemy alive tactics 101.

Tony must not have gone to that class, because he swore colorfully over Clint as if he hadn't seen that coming. For a genius, Tony was sometimes stupid, but Clint knew he wasn't being fair; Tony hadn't been thinking about that. He hadn't really cared that HYDRA was getting away because he didn't care about Bucky. But maybe that wasn't fair either, maybe it was just Clint's anger talking.

Natasha suddenly appeared over him. She crouched down and gripped his underarms, hulling him up into a slumped sitting position.

She was pale, but looked unharmed.

Clint gave her a dark glare and her eyes shifted away from his. He then looked past her to where Steve...

Where was Steve? Steve wasn't lying by the glass where Tony had put him only minutes before.

Panic started clawing up Clint's throat, but he couldn't do anything about that emotion. The drug was still wreaking havoc on him, and while the feeling was frightening and humiliating, he didn't have time to be concerned with that, so he shoved it down and inhaled deeply through his nose.

His eyes flicked to Natasha. She was staring back at him, any emotions she was feeling put aside, leaving her face a blank mask.

"They took him too," she said quietly. "They took Steve."

.

.

A/N: I wanted to post this earlier, but I got my wisdom teeth pulled two days ago and really wasn't in the frame of mind to do so (aka I was high as fuck).

Anyway. I hope you guys like this chapter because I really like it, even tho it was incredibly hard to write. Initially when I was thinking through this fic, it was going to end around here with the team saving the day and them all riding off in a blaze of glory. But when I started working on this chapter, I had the thought of what if they don't save the day? What if HYDRA gets Bucky back? And I really liked that. I thought it made sense to flesh this conflict out a little more. Plus, even if Tony is starting to see exactly what was done to Bucky, I don't think that really means he's forgiven him, so I thought giving Tony more time to process everything was a good thing. ALSO! I decided very last minute that HYDRA was also going to take Steve with them. First because I just love that idea, and second, it gives Bucky and Steve some quality time (even if it is in a bad situation).

This got really long, but I'm just really excited to share my thought process with everyone!

Also, I do know that this isn't super realistic. Like, there's a good chance our team could have fought their way out etc. etc. but clearly I didn't want them to win, so just go with it, even tho it doesn't make the most sense.

Thank you to everyone who is reading/reviewing/favoriting/etc. Also, I would like to throw a special thank you to all my guest reviewers! There have been quite a few of you leaving amazing and encouraging reviews, and I can't thank each of you personally, so this is me letting you know that I appreciate you all.


	15. Chapter 15

[15]

 _The open palmed slap hit him across his cheek and jaw. It barely hurt, but the sound of flesh hitting flesh made a loud_ crack _that echoed throughout the bare room._

 _Dark strands of his wet hair hung in his eyes, but he knew better than to brush it aside. It would be better to have his vision impaired rather than make a sudden motion that could be mistaken for an attack._

" _You were told to report back after your mission!" the voice lashed out._

 _He didn't look at the man speaking, keeping his eyes locked on the stone floor._

" _Instead, you deviated. You ignored orders_ and _your mission. Do you hear me? Soldier?" The voice made a disgusted sound, deep in his throat, and this time his knuckles hit the Soldier heavily on his jaw._

 _His head jerked to the side and he tasted blood in his mouth from where his teeth caught the soft inside of his cheek. But he didn't make a sound. He might be 'breaking his programming' like he had heard one of the other soldiers say, but the rule of silence had been ingrained in him through tor—training._ No matter what happened, the Asset must remain completely silent. Failure to do so will result in—

" _He's fucking stupid," the voice continued, directing this to someone else in the room._

 _The Soldier felt a flare of...something, deep in his chest._

" _Look at him." A hand reached out, snagging his chin and jerking his head up so that he was finally looking at the voice's face._

 _He realized with a small jolt that he recognized the man. It was an unusual feeling for him, but he gratefully flicked through the memories his brain was helpfully supplying on what he knew of the man holding his chin. The man's name was Major Jackson, an American sent to help oversee the mission in the U.S. He was new; this was only his second mission with the Soldier, but he already acted like he knew how to handle the Soldier._

 _He didn't._

 _The fingers were digging into his chin with bruising force, holding his face in place. Jackson liked to be in control—that much the Soldier could tell._

 _His eyes traveled up Jackson's full face, focusing on his eyes. They were dull and almost colorless, and they blinked in surprise as the Soldier focused on them._

" _What's he doing?" Jackson muttered, almost to himself._

 _The Soldier didn't respond, but he let his lips pull back over his bloody teeth. It wasn't a smile and they both knew it._

 _Jackson's fingers loosened and the Soldier could see the fear in those dull eyes._

 _Fear_ he _had put there._

 _In the cold pit of his stomach, he felt a thrill of warmth._

 _The warmth stayed even as Jackson's fists attempted to reclaim his dignity._

 _Too late for that._

 _His skin was split and bleeding from Jackson's knuckles, but the pain was minimal and worth the look that he had put on Jackson's face._

 _He didn't even notice when the assault abruptly stopped._

 _But then there was new, cool fingers gripping his chin and the back of his neck, lifting his head up again._

 _He blinked up at the new face. This man he knew well, and a fist of fear clenched in his stomach. He felt his breath freeze in his mouth and throat, choking him._

" _Soldat?" Karpov's head swiveled and he glared at Jackson, who was breathing heavily in the corner, fists ripped and bloody. "You've set back his cryo sleep three days. We can't put him under with injuries."_

 _Jackson stuttered something out, but Karpov and the Soldier weren't paying attention anymore._

" _Do not worry, Soldat," Karpov murmured in Russian, letting go of the Soldier's face and neck. He stepped back and eyed him carefully._

 _The Soldier tried to show nothing, like always, but his eyes betrayed him, and he saw the moment Karpov realized there was more inside him than just the winter they forced into his veins._

" _Ah, I see," Karpov said quietly, leaning forward and brushing a quick hand across the Soldier's sweaty and blood streaked face. "You've found more of yourself than we realized. Tell me, what did you see? What made you stray from your mission?"_

 _The Soldier didn't say anything, but his mind flicked to the crumbled comic book in the trash on the street corner. He hadn't picked it up to look at, but he had seen the red, white, and blue flares of color and the round shield staring up at him, and that had been enough._

 _It was enough to remind him that he was more than just their Soldier. He had been someone before this, and if he had his way, he would be someone after this too._

" _No matter," Karpov said when the silence stretched. "We will scrub it out, just like what we did with everything else."_

 _The fear in his mouth and throat thickened and he couldn't breathe. He didn't want to forget what he had seen or what he was feeling now._

 _But he didn't have a choice. The chair that he was strapped to would hold him down and even with his superior strength and metal arm, he couldn't fight them. He never had been able to before._

 _They would turn the machine on and it would take_ everything _from him._

 _Frustration built inside his chest and he could feel his lips trembling. His eyes blurred, Karpov and Jackson and all the others turned into smudges. It took him a moment to realize that salty tears were dripping quietly down his cheeks, mixing with the red blood._

 _Karpov swam into view. "Do not worry, Soldat. It will be all over. Soon you won't remember anything." His thumb reached out, brushing at the tears._

 _The Soldier made himself stop. He shut down the emotions that were swimming inside him. It didn't matter anyway. Karpov would take the emotions and everything else away from him, and then he would go to sleep and when he woke up, he would remember nothing._

.

.

Bucky blinked back into himself, banishing the memories of who he was when they had their fingers in his brain. He was disoriented, but knew he wouldn't do himself any favors if he showed that to the people who were undoubtedly watching him.

So he blinked again, keeping his face impassive. His head ached as if actual fingers _had_ been digging into his brain, looking for his darkest secrets.

His surroundings sharpened suddenly and then focused. He was in a small, familiar space. It was dark and hot, and his whole body swayed with the rhythm of the truck he was sitting in.

He shifted on the hard bench, belatedly noticing that his arms and legs were cuffed to the metal bars that were attached to the bench. The cuffs were the real deal too; these particular HYDRA agents had come prepared and informed on how to deal with the Winter Soldier.

Bucky tried not to think about how he ended up here in the back of the truck, surrounded by the enemy. He didn't want to think about the body count he had surely piled up, doing whatever Karpov had commanded of him.

 _That_ had been a shock. Not just that the American HYDRA agents had Karpov with them, but that he had started using the words.

When the Russian words had sounded through the speakers in the basement it had been as if no time had passed, but Bucky knew that in reality, decades had gone by since Karpov had stood at his side and worked his puppet strings.

Back then, when they had been hidden away in Siberia, they had perfected Bucky's conditioning with Karpov at the helm. He was a constant in Bucky's torn memories, always standing to the side with that damn red book. He would be scribbling away, making notes every time Bucky spat up blood or lost consciousness from the chair or the unforgiving fists of the HYDRA agents.

Bucky had been nothing more than a project to him. No. Not just a project. He had been a favored lab rat.

Bucky's lips curled at the thought, and he pulled his mind away from the tunnel of past memories.

He let his head dip, hair falling into his face. The hair tie was still there, tangled into clumps of his hair at the top of his head, but it was doing little to actually hold his hair back anymore.

He flexed his hands, staring at the way his metal hand shifted at his command. Bucky wondered how long it would be before it was covered in blood.

"He's awake." The voice was American. Not Karpov.

There was some shuffling in the back of the truck, and abruptly there was a hand gripping his hair.

His head was forced up and he was staring into the face of one of his captors.

There was dark bags under the man's eyes and stubble was scattered across his cheeks. It spoke to how long they had been looking for Bucky, and if the anger snapping in the man's eyes was any indication, it had been too long.

"Careful, Rader, he'll might bite you."

"He probably has rabies," another voice added.

There was scattered laughter and Rader's fingers twitched, but he didn't let go.

His eyes darkened and his hand twisted, pulling roughly at Bucky's hair and making his scalp sting.

"Look at you," Rader said, lowering his voice. "You're not much of anything. Certainly not worth the men—my friends—who died trying to get you."

Bucky slowly blinked up at the man and then said, "Then you should have stayed away."

Rader's eyes widened; maybe he didn't think Bucky was capable of speaking, that he was some kind of robot, or maybe he thought that Bucky would be a gibbering mess after Karpov's words.

Bucky was none of that. Not anymore. He had clawed his way out of that abyss and he wasn't planning on going back quietly.

Bucky held Rader's eyes, and he watched as the shock faded, replaced with anger again. He let go of Bucky, but he drew back his hand and smashed his knuckles into Bucky's mouth.

Bucky felt Rader's skin split open on his teeth, but the punch itself was weak.

Rader jerked backwards, ramming into the opposite wall of the truck. He swore as he gripped his bleeding hand.

Bucky let his lips pull back and he grinned at Baker with bloody teeth. The grin gave him a jolt of déjà vu; the memories of Jackson and Karpov was hovering in the corners of his mind, and the fact that it was probably only one memory of other HYDRA agents getting too hands on with him, made Bucky's mouth twist.

"Fucking psycho," Rader hissed, but stayed back. With one last glare at Bucky, Rader shifted back down the line to find his seat again.

"Dammit, Rader, we were supposed to leave him alone," someone muttered.

Bucky didn't bother to locate the voice. Instead, he kept his face impassive and stared at the black wall on the opposite side of where he was sitting.

Intimidation and fear had always been weapons in his arsenal; months of being free hadn't changed that, and if he wanted to survive this, he needed these men completely and truly afraid of him.

He sunk deep into his subconscious; he was aware of what was going on around him, and he wouldn't be taken by surprise if they made a sudden move on him, but he needed to start building walls in his mind again while he prepared for what was to come.

As well as trying to find a way out of this shitshow.

The words were drenched in more bravado than he felt.

Instead he felt fear. Cold and heartless fear was clawing its way up his ribs and lodging itself in his throat.

Because he knew what was coming. HYDRA would be eager to put him back into the chair. The sooner they scoured his brain and put him on ice, the better.

Of course, they might not do that right away. Maybe they thought they would need to repair his cracked programming. Maybe they would keep him awake for months while they attempted to repair the damage.

A small shiver worked its way up Bucky's spine, despite the smothering heat in the truck.

He had gotten back memory after memory, but there were some that he was content to just remain ripped and broken. He didn't want to remember what HYDRA did when they were displeased, but he knew that he was about to get a rough and brutal reminder, whether he wanted it or not.

.

.

Tony knew he had fucked up.

This wasn't like the time when he was a boy genius at MIT and had "accidently" flooded two levels of the science building, and they had called Howard like he was some kind of middle school troublemaker.

No. This was a life and death situation, or life-but-would-rather-be-dead situation because Tony had seen Barnes' eyes; he knew that Steve's friend would rather be dead than go back to HYDRA.

He had known that, but he hadn't cared.

Okay, no—he _did_ care. He just thought that the lives of Fury's people had mattered more. There were hundreds of agents in the building, and Bucky had only been one man. The math had been simple.

But.

HYDRA had gone back on their word (shocker) and had taken Steve too. Why the hell they wanted America's Man with a Plan, Tony didn't know.

No, that was another lie. He knew. He just didn't want to admit that he had willingly given HYDRA not one, but two super soldiers. One with the ability to turn into a coldblooded assassin at the drop of a hat and the other that could easily be turned into a coldblooded assassin.

Tony scrubbed his palms into his face, blocking out the voices that surrounded him. He needed to think this through.

It hadn't been hard to flick a little tracker Barnes' way when HYDRA had pulled him out of the cage. Attracted to the metal of his arm, the tracker had firmly lodged itself in between the shifting plates, but after they had finally gotten out of the basement and back upstairs to the body filled first level, Tony had logged on to one of the computers to start tracking Barnes only to realize that it had been taken offline.

"How could have you been so _fucking stupid_?" Clint snapped, words hurling themselves against Tony's flimsy mental wall.

Tony blinked into his palms and then dropped them, looking up at what remained of their team.

Sam was silent in the corner, eyeing the bodies of SHIELD agents that hadn't been part of the deal apparently.

Natasha was the only reason that Clint hadn't thrown himself at Tony yet. She stood next to her partner, lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. Her arms were crossed over her chest and she wasn't making an attempt to hold him back, but her very presence was enough to make Clint pause.

Tony's eyes flicked to Clint. He hadn't seen the man in over a year, and even then he had never really known Clint, but he had always assumed that Clint was the even keeled one, the one who was calm through all the chaos.

Looking at him now, Tony didn't know why he ever thought that.

Clint was livid. He was shaking from the effort to keep it under control, or maybe he was just shaking from the adrenaline that was probably still coursing through his veins. His bare arms were covered in cuts and bruises and there was a particularly nasty cut on Clint's head, just by his hairline. He didn't have his pistol; Natasha hadn't given it back after the drug had worn off, but Tony didn't doubt that Clint was more than capable of killing him with his bare hands.

"Stark," Clint said. "Eyes up."

Tony blinked and focused. "What?"

"What? What the hell do you think? You got us into this mess, you don't get to check out now. If we don't do something right fucking now then we're never going to find them. You all realize that, right? HYDRA is going to bury them so deep and so thoroughly that the only confirmation we'll have that they're alive is whispers."

Tony snorted a little, despite the seriousness of the situation. "Dramatic much, Barton?"

Clint's eyes narrowed and he stalked forward. Tony jerked back, shooting Natasha a look. She blinked impassively back at him.

Clint jabbed a finger into Tony's face, bringing Tony's attention back to him. "Steve might die! And if they don't kill him, they will turn him into a twisted version of himself, just like what they did with Bucky. And you know, what? It'll all be thanks to you."

"Okay, ease up there," Sam finally spoke up.

Clint jerked around to glare at him, and Tony was thankful that the other man's attention was diverted, even if it was only for a minute.

"You—," Clint started, but then cut himself off abruptly. Tony could see that Clint's shoulders had stiffened and he was holding himself almost at attention. He took a step away from Tony, and Tony was glad for the space. "Fury?"

That caught Tony's focus and he straightened, scooting around Clint and Natasha to see Fury slowly dragging himself out of the dark hall. He looked bruised, but surprisingly unscathed.

"Where the hell have you been?" Clint snapped and then stopped again when Fury's eye pinned him in place.

"I see you're all doing your pre-Avengers thing again," Fury said, coughing a little. He shuffled closer, taking Sam's offered arm and leaning heavily against him. "I thought you had learned your lesson during New York. You won't get shit done if you don't work together."

"It's a little hard to work with a team who are going to stab me in the back," Clint muttered.

Everyone heard him, but no one said anything.

Silence settled over the wrecked room. Sunlight flittered through the windows, casting too much light on the scene.

Bile rose in Tony's throat and he wondered if every level in the compound was like this, if HYDRA had even kept any part of their agreement.

"They have Steve and Bucky," Clint said to Fury, shattering the silence.

Fury didn't look surprised, which shouldn't have been a shock to Tony, but somehow it still was.

"I know," Fury said, "but going for each other's throats isn't going to bring them back." He directed this at Clint. The man didn't flinch under Fury's gaze, only staring defiantly back. "Barton, you think that I was going to let Barnes out into the field without trackers? We start with those and if that fails, we move on to the ones I put on Rogers."

Tony frowned. "You put bugs on Steve?"

Fury leveled him with a look, and Tony's eyebrows rose and he didn't say anything else.

"For now," Fury said, eye going to each of them, "pull yourselves together. We're going to get this compound running again, and when we do, we will find our missing men."

.

.

 _Mud caked his boots, weighing them down, but Steve hardly noticed. The camp his team had set up was a soft glow ahead of him, and all he wanted was to finally sit down and maybe eat some of the warm chow they finally had access to now that they were back on at a more permanent base._

 _As if on cue, Steve's stomach gave an ungodly growl. He winced and placed a dirty hand against it, patting it absently._

 _He glanced around, checking to see if anyone had heard it, but he was alone; the rest of his team was already sitting comfortably at the fire. Steve had had to go to Colonel Phillips' tent and give their report. It wasn't really his favorite task, but he was the Howling Commandos' leader and it came with the job._

 _He neared the fire and his men, slowing his walk and lightening his tread._

 _His men didn't notice him, and once again Steve marveled at what he had become. Sometimes his body, and everything he could do now, scared him, but Steve didn't tell anyone that._

 _How could he tell anyone that this miracle that had been given to him also frightened him? Especially when the reality was that if he was still that scrawny little thing from Brooklyn he probably would have died a few years ago. The truth of the matter was that the serum had saved his life._

 _As Steve lingered at the edge of the small camp while he eyed each of his men. Their faces were lit up by the flickering red and orange glow of the fire, giving them an almost eerie look._

 _But even the fire couldn't hide the fact that they looked tired. Dark bags were present under their eyes, easy to see even in the dark, and their backs were hunched a little against the chill of the French night._

 _Steve didn't blame them for it. The fatigue that covered them was also tugging at him. That's generally what happened when you went from mission to mission for months on end, tracking down HYDRA bases._

 _Steve's eyes paused on Bucky, who sat between Dum-Dum and Gabe. He had a tin bowl wrapped between two hands and his shoulders were curved forward as he hunched over his bowl, but it was the look on his face that made Steve pause. Bucky's face was pale and drawn, lined with streaks of mud from their trek back to base. His eyes were dark, almost black in the murky night. They didn't look like the eyes that Steve knew; they were older, colder, and maybe had a hint of insanity about them that Steve didn't know what to do with._

 _A part of Steve was always going to wonder what had happened to Bucky when he was being held by HYDRA as a POW. He was always going to wonder what had been done to his friend to make him look like his soul had been ripped out and replaced haphazardly, but Steve didn't know and most nights he wasn't sure he wanted to know._

" _You gonna stand there all night like a lump or are you gonna sit down?" Bucky called out, eyes fixed firmly on the fire._

 _Steve startled at Bucky's sudden words and so did the rest of the team when they noticed Steve lurking._

" _What the hell, Cap'n!" Dum-Dum swore, one hand aggressively rubbing at his moustache as if that would help calm his nerves._

" _Sorry, sorry," Steve offered with a grin. He shifted forward into the circle, glancing around for a place to sit._

" _Here," Bucky said, surging to his feet. "Take my spot."_

 _Steve started to protest, but Bucky wasn't listening. He handed Steve his tin bowl and barely waited for Steve to grasp it before he let go and started walking away from the group._

" _Hey, Buck—wait," Steve said, eyebrows drawing down. But Bucky didn't even pause as he stalked away._

 _Their group fell silent and Steve could feel his team's eyes flick from him to where Bucky had disappeared into the night._

 _He frowned and looked to Morita, who shrugged back._

 _But it was Falsworth who spoke up, British accent clipped, "Bad dreams, sir."_

 _Steve blinked and then swallowed roughly; they were all cursed with nightmares, and he supposed that he would be his whole life, however long it might be._

 _Bucky seemed to have them most nights, violent enough that everyone knew. He would thrash in his cot and blankets, hands fighting off invisible enemies. His teeth would be clenched tightly and his hands were always curled into fists, and just when Steve thought Bucky was going to break something, his friend would snap awake._

 _Bucky never screamed anymore either. Never during his dreams, but Steve had noticed that even when he got hurt he wouldn't let out a sound._

 _A few weeks back he had gotten slashed with a knife by a HYDRA goon. His mouth had opened as if he wanted to let out a yell, but then he had swallowed it down and pressed his lips into a bloodless line. Instead of yelling, he had forced the knife out of the goon's hand and into his own before stabbing it into the goon's neck._

 _The incident had scared Steve. Not just because Bucky couldn't have been killed, but because of how cold and empty he had been when he had killed the HYDRA goon with his own knife._

 _War was taking everything from them, and Steve worried that it was taking Bucky's soul too._

" _He's going to be okay," Steve said, more to himself, but he knew that his team needed to hear it too. They all cared about each other, but Bucky had been the one who had stared the enemy in the eyes for weeks and had come away alive. There was a sort of unspoken agreement among the team that they needed to keep a close watch on Sergeant Barnes, just to make sure he was doing things like eating and drinking and sleeping whenever possible._

" _Sit down, Cap," Gabe said, gesturing to Bucky's empty seat._

 _Steve gave the gapping night that had swallowed Bucky one last look and then folded himself down onto the thick log they were using as a bench._

 _The team's voices slowly came back and eventually there was a soft murmur in the background of Steve's loud thoughts._

 _He stared moodily at the fire, hands still gripping Bucky's tin._

 _Somedays he wished that he had sent Bucky back home to the States. He had seen the way Bucky had looked in that smoky bar back in London; Bucky had been struggling in the aftermath of being held by HYRDA, but Steve also knew that he couldn't do this without Bucky. Or maybe he just didn't want to do it without his oldest friend by his side._

 _And anyway, he knew there was no way in hell Bucky would willingly go back home to leave Steve alone to fight the Nazis and HYDRA._

 _A branch broke just outside the circle, alerting Steve to his surroundings again. His chin jerked up and his eyes were already scanning the area around the fire._

 _His racing heart slowed as he saw Bucky standing in the trees._

" _You're back," Steve said._

 _Bucky shrugged and shifted into the light. He was holding a dark bottle in one hand._

" _I left to find something to drink," he said with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes._

" _Heyo!" Dum-Dum said, getting to his feet and giving Bucky a strong clap on his back._

 _Bucky stumbled forward a step, sending a half-hearted glare at Dum-Dum. He took a swig from the bottle and then handed it off to Dum-Dum, who whooped in response._

 _The team's voice rose again as they began to pass Bucky's contraband around, and Dernier quickly started a song in French that no one knew the words to, but joined in enthusiastically nevertheless._

 _Bucky sat himself down by Steve, a small, real grin on his lips as he watched his teammates._

 _Steve felt his own stress loosen just a little, and he nudged Bucky with an elbow._

" _They're drinking all your wine."_

" _Eh, doesn't really work anyway," Bucky said, eyes glued to the team._

 _Steve frowned, not sure what Bucky meant._

" _And anyway, aren't you supposed to be reporting me for being in possession of contraband?" Bucky's head swiveled and he flashed Steve a grin._

 _Steve rolled his eyes. "It's raising morale. Besides, I'm not losing my best sniper over a bottle of wine."_

 _Bucky laughed. "If only they knew what you let us get away with. They'd take away your stripes so fast, you wouldn't know what happened."_

" _Oh, they know," Steve said. "They just don't care because they also know we're their most effective team out on the field right now. What's a little black market chocolate and wine when we're getting the job done?"_

" _Hell, Captain, that chocolate and wine is what's winning us the war," Bucky said, deepening his voice into an uncanny resemblance of Phillips'._

 _Steve turned serious. "It's you and the men that's winning us this war. And the rest of our army. We're doing good work, Buck. I know it's not easy and I know...we're not going to be the same when we get home, but it's worth it."_

 _Bucky's mouth twisted and he jerked his chin at Steve. "What makes you think we're going home?"_

 _Steve blinked; he didn't have a response for that because he had always assumed they would go home, but the truth was that more than half of them probably would never set foot in their homeland again._

" _Well, as long as it's you and me," Steve finally said with a small shrug, "I'm alright with dying."_

 _Bucky was silent for a moment and then he said. "Me too."_

.

.

Steve was awake. He had been for a while now, and to say that he had been disoriented when he woke up was an understatement.

The last thing he remembered was Tony knocking him out while Bucky paced in the cage behind him. He tried not to think about that too hard, because he knew that if he did, his anger at Tony would only grow.

Now, he was in a cell of some kind with steel bars that could withstand even his strength. It was damp and dark, which brought back memories of the war when Steve had rescued his team from the HYDRA work camp.

It wasn't a pleasant memory, but it did give Steve a pretty clear idea of where he probably was.

His stomach twisted as he pulled himself into a more comfortable position on the wet floor.

He didn't want to think about what went so wrong back at Fury's compound for him to end up in HYDRA's hands. He hoped that Tony and the others were still alive, but he knew that if he wanted to survive whatever HYDRA had planned for him he needed to push the fate of his friends into the back of his mind and focus on the present.

His back was pressed against the damp wall, soaking into his jacket and spreading its icy fingers across his spine.

The small room he was in held another cell just opposite of his, but other than the door that led in and out, there was nothing else in the small space.

Steve heaved a breath of air out of his lungs, glaring through the metal bars. He was starting to lose patience with HYDRA. He just wanted them to get on with it, whatever _it_ was.

As if summoned by his thoughts, the door clanked as the outer locks were shoved out of place and it swung inward.

Steve was on his feet in seconds, going close to the bars and peering through them to see who was coming in.

A group of soldiers entered the room, but Steve ignored them because huddled in the middle of the soldiers was Bucky.

His feet were chained together, giving him minimal slack to walk, and his hands were cuffed while a thick chain was looped from his hands to his neck where another cuff encircled his throat.

Steve's teeth creaked under the pressure of grinding them together as he watched as his friend was prodded into the empty cell opposite his.

It was all done in complete silence; not one of the soldiers said a word and Bucky's lips were pressed together into a white line, keeping his voice safely inside.

Two of the soldiers took Bucky's feet chains off before quickly exiting his cell. Then, just as suddenly as they had come, they left the room, leaving Steve alone with Bucky for the first time in months.

Steve stared at his friend, who sank to the floor into a sitting position with his legs crossed.

Steve opened his mouth, but no words came out. He swallowed and briefly closed his eyes. When he opened them he started in surprise; Bucky was staring at him through the gloom.

There was a strange look on Bucky's face, one that Steve hadn't seen in a long time, but it disappeared a second later, and Steve thought maybe he had imagined the concern and fear on Bucky's face.

Steve eyed Bucky in the silence that hung heavily over them. His friend wasn't under HYDRA's control anymore; whatever had been done to him when the man had spoken the Russian words had worn off, but the Bucky that sat in the cell wasn't quite Steve's Bucky either.

The reality of the matter was that the Bucky that had emerged from Fury's cage the first time was achingly familiar. He had elements of the old Barnes' swagger from before the war, but the overwhelmingly majority of his personality had been the bitter and sharp Bucky that had stayed at Steve's side after the POW camp, even when he could have gone home to Brooklyn.

The difference was that this Bucky didn't know Steve. This Bucky didn't shoot biting remarks at his superior officers while holding a soft spot for Steve and the rest of the Howling Commandos.

This Bucky was as cracked and broken as that old one had been, but without the good memories to hold him up, to help him heal. He was jagged and angry, and Steve didn't know how to help him.

"Are you just going to stare at me until they come back or are you going to say something?" Bucky's hoarse voice echoed in the cold room, and Steve shivered at the sound of it and the memories it held.

"I, uh," Steve said, leaning up against the bars of his cell.

Bucky snorted, and Steve could almost pretend that this was _his_ Bucky, making fun of him for using his words so eloquently.

Steve cleared his throat. "How are we going to get out of here? Wherever here is."

Bucky squinted at him through the black bars of his cell.

"What are you even doing here?" Bucky asked instead of answering. "Where is Clint and everyone else?"

Steve decided to let Bucky's evasion of the question go for now. "I don't really know how I got here."

"How can you not know?" Bucky said with a frown.

"Tony knocked me out," Steve said with a shrug.

A dark look passed over Bucky's face. "Bastard."

"Only sometimes," Steve said, but nodded his agreement, fighting to clamp down on his anger again. It hovered too close to the surface these days. "As far as I know everyone else is okay." Steve said it with as much positivity as he could manage, but he wasn't even sure he truly felt it; HYDRA was brutal and cruel, it would have made sense for them to kill the others before leaving with their prizes.

"You shouldn't be here," Bucky muttered, raising his chained hands to face to rub it roughly, and for the first time Steve could hear the stress lining his voice. The nonchalance that Bucky was emitting was all an act that was quickly disappearing.

"But I am," Steve said. "So how do we get out?"

Bucky let his hands drop to his lap and then winced as they jerked against the chain that was connected to his neck. He shook his head a second later. "We don't. Or at least, I won't."

Steve frowned. His fingers poked through the bars as he gripped them with both hands while he glared at Bucky.

"We're getting out."

Bucky let out a humorless laugh. "No, we're not. You don't understand. There is no way out, not now."

"Explain it, then," Steve said with a low growl.

Bucky's head tipped to the side and he studied Steve for a long moment. Slowly he stood up and pressed himself close to the bars of his cell.

"I've been getting my memories back," he said slowly, and Steve felt a thrill of hope. It must have shown on his face because Bucky's eyes widened and he added, "Not about before...just about HYDRA and my missions for them."

Steve swallowed down the painful lump of disappointment and gave Bucky a steady nod; it was good that the memories were coming back and not lost forever, that meant that the good memories of Brooklyn, and Steve, would eventually come back. They had to. Steve refused to believe that the world could be so cruel to give Bucky back to him only equipped with memories of his torture.

"The things that they did to make me forget, they'll do it again," Bucky said. "They have the chair." A shudder rippled through him so violently that his chains rattled. His cheeks colored at his show of weakness, but Steve didn't say anything. "They have Karpov and he has the book with the words.

"The words will make me a puppet in his hands. I can try to fight it all I want, but I can't escape it or him." Bucky paused. "They're never going to let me go now that they've got me back. They'll spend some time scrubbing my mind and when I'm a blank slate again, they'll put me on ice for a couple of decades. There's no escaping them. Not for me."

"You didn't have me before," Steve said fiercely.

"No, but Steve, why do you think they brought you along? They're going to do the same to you."

Steve blinked rapidly. He supposed that made sense.

"It took them years to make me compliant, and you're stronger than me, so it'll take them longer. You have time before you're like me, and before that happens your team will come for you." He paused again and then shrugged and added with cold detachment, "Or maybe they'll never find this place and you'll end up like me." His eyes found Steve's and he pinned him in place with a long look. "After all, _you_ never found me."

It felt like Bucky had taken one of his many knives and plunged it in Steve's chest. On instinct, Steve's hand went up to his chest and pressed against where his heart was thumping against his ribs. The statement wasn't fair and they both knew it; everyone had thought Bucky was dead, and there had been no point in looking for a dead man, but it didn't take away the mountains of guilt that weighed on Steve's shoulders.

"I'm sorry," Bucky said softly after a long beat of silence. "I didn't mean that."

"Yes you did," Steve said, voice strangled.

"No, I didn't," Bucky said, soft heat lining his voice. "I'm just being an ass. What happened to me wasn't your fault. It wasn't anyone's. It just...happened and we can't change that. I don't blame you for that."

Steve blinked away a sudden moisture in his eyes; the tone of voice was just like his Bucky's, and for a second _this_ Bucky had been his old friend again.

"All the original HYDRA doctors who did this to me are dead anyway," Bucky added. A dark look passed over his face as his eyes focused on a point over Steve's shoulder. "But one of them was alive a little while ago. I remembered him after D.C." He paused and then looked back at Steve. "He's not alive anymore."

Steve swallowed at the cold admission of murder from Bucky, but he couldn't help but feel a burn of justice too. He knew that the HYDRA doctor had probably been old and frail when Bucky had killed him; it hadn't been worth Bucky's effort and frankly it made Steve feel a little sick to think about.

"He had a heart attack," Bucky said with a twist of his lips. "I showed up in his home and he took one look at me and died of literal fright."

Steve let out a surprised laugh and then clapped hand over his mouth; there was nothing funny about the situation.

Bucky shrugged. "I'm not a complete monster; I couldn't kill an old man. And anyway, it wouldn't have done anything to change what he had done to me."

Steve let out a shuddery breath. Hope filled his chest for Bucky; he hadn't killed someone in cold blood. The man might have deserved it, but killing old people who couldn't defend themselves wasn't something that Steve could condone.

"How do we get out?" Steve said, bringing the conversation back to the start. "You know how they operate, and they made the mistake of putting us together. We can figure out a way of this. We don't need the others to come find us if we can get out of here."

Bucky eyed him, seeming to size him up. He didn't speak for a long while and for a minute, Steve thought that Bucky was going to tell him to go to hell and curl up in a ball and accept his fate at the hands of HYDRA, but then he said, "Alright."

There wasn't time for anymore words because the door opened again and an older man entered, flanked by heavily armed soldiers.

Bucky flinched at the sight of the man and took a quick step away from the bars.

"Karpov," he said lowly.

The man's eyes flicked to Bucky. "Soldat. You remember me." He smiled. "We will change that soon enough."

Bucky let out a huff of air and his chains rattled, but Karpov's attention turned to Steve. "Captain. We've never had the pleasure."

Steve's lips curled and he glared at Karpov through the bars.

"There's strength in you," Karpov said with a nod. "The Soldat was like that at first. Or at least that's what his file says, I wasn't part of the program then, but I read that they beat it out of him. We'll do the same to you."

"You can try," Steve snarled. "But you'll fail."

Kaprov shrugged. "We'll see."

.

.

A/N: Sorry that this took a little while to write and post. Basically the day after I posted the last chapter, my jaw and toothless gums started hurting so bad from getting my wisdom teeth removed that I could barely do anything other than watch movies (and even then I hardly remember what I watched, I was in so much pain). So that was fun.

I know that there was some discontent about how the last chapter ended (with Bucky and Steve getting taken by HYDRA), but like I said before I'm really excited to write that particular plot out. I think there's a lot of story to tell and I'm here for it. Also, just so everyone knows, I'm totally not about unhappy endings, so even if there are some bumps along the way, this fic will end happily.

So I REALLY liked this chapter. Some of it was difficult, but I loved writing the flashbacks and the whole scene between Steve and Bucky was so much fun. Hopefully, you guys agree.

As always, thank you for the reviews/follows/favorites!


	16. Chapter 16

[16]

Bucky didn't fight when the soldiers took both him and Steve out of their cells. What would be the point? He didn't know anything about the layout of the HYDRA base, so even if he did manage to get free, he wouldn't know where to go and he would only end up back where he started.

He had caught Steve's eyes before the soldiers unlocked the cells and Steve had given him a short nod, showing his understanding that they weren't going to make a move yet. It was strange that this man, someone Bucky barely knew, could understand exactly what he was thinking by just a look, but then, Bucky supposed, Steve _had_ known him for years.

Bucky allowed himself to be shoved through the halls, keeping note of the twists and turns of each step, until they finally stopped at a heavy metal door.

He could hear Steve behind him, and he could only imagine the restraint that the other man was using to keep himself from cracking a few skulls together.

The door swung inward and they shifted Bucky inside, followed closely by Steve, who had soldiers surrounding him too.

Inside, Bucky froze and not even the shoves from the soldiers could make him move.

The chair was in the middle of the room, cold and unforgiving.

It almost looked harmless, like an oversized barber shop chair, but it was anything but harmless.

 _Clamps were tight around his arms and legs, holding him in place. His chest was heaving and stained with blood and sweat. Fingers prodded at his open wounds, checking to see the rate of healing, but they seemed to burn him as they touched him._

 _He tried to jerk away from the touches, but there was nowhere for him to go._

Bile rose in his throat at the thought of sitting in that thing again, and he gaged loudly in the sudden quiet.

Screams of the past echoed in his head, rattling from one end of his skull to the other.

 _-Be silent. Soldiers do not scream-_

He brought his hands up to his head in an attempt to shut out the noise, but remembered too late that his hands were cuffed and couldn't even reach both of his ears. He jerked them away, choking as the chain around his neck caught on the cuffs.

 _His head lolled to the side, dark strands of his hair sticking to his forehead and neck. His eyes were blurry with thick tears, making the men and women in the rooms nothing more than shifting colors._

 _-Please, please- he whispered. –stop. I don't know what you want. Just tell me what you want. Please-_

 _-Soldiers don't beg-_

 _He swallowed the scream in his throat as fresh pain rolled across his body at the whir and hiss of the machines surrounding him. His bones grinded together as he fought to get free, but then his spine stiffened and he couldn't move anymore._

"Move, Soldier," a voice said at his side, but he ignored it, eyes glued to the machine that was going to take everything away from him. Again.

Someone shoved their palm into his back, but he didn't even shift; they were too weak to force him with only their brute strength, and Bucky wasn't going back into the chair voluntarily.

He could feel his nails biting into his flesh palm as he curled his hands into tight fists. Warm blood welled up from the wounds, but he couldn't even feel it. His complete focus was on the chair that sat waiting for him.

They weren't going to give him a choice—not that they had before—they were going to force him back into the chair whether he wanted it or not, and he wouldn't be able to stop them.

Thoughts of escape flitting through his mind. He knew that he could kill most of the men surrounding him, even with his hands cuffed like they were. After they were dead, he could...what? Run out of the room? Try to find an exit while dodging HYDRA agents that were scattered throughout the compound?

He squeezed his eyes shut. He needed to endure whatever Karpov had planned for a while to give them time to figure a way out of this. Besides, it wasn't just him this time, Steve was here too.

That helped a little, but the idea of going back into the chair, even if it was only for a little while, pushed itself to the forefront of his mind, and now faced with the stark reality of it, he found he couldn't breathe.

"Bucky?" Steve's voice broke into Bucky's frantic thoughts, and without meaning to, he turned around, but no one stopped him.

Steve was standing in the midst of HYDRA soldiers, who looked fed up with the whole situation. Bucky briefly thought about killing them and painting the floor with their blood, but then he actually focused on Steve.

Steve's body was ramrod straight and his cuffed hands were hanging uselessly in front of him. His face was tight and pale, streaked with dirt, and a purple bruise was like spilled ink on the skin of his exposed neck from where Stark had hit him.

Bucky pulled his attention from the externals of Steve and looked at his face. Steve's eyes were shining with a desperate fear at what was to come, but they also held a burning hope; he might not fully understand what was going on in Bucky's mind, but he had to know enough, and he believed that whatever happened, they were going to make it out to the other side.

"It's going to be okay," Steve said quietly. He didn't say that he would stop the pain or that he would make sure the HYDRA soldiers didn't hurt Bucky, but the promise of an _after_ was enough for Bucky to cling to.

He grasped it like a drowning man grabbing a lifeline. His lungs expanded as he sucked in air; he hadn't even realized that he had stopped breathing, and a shudder rippled through him, but he gave Steve a careful nod and turned back around to face one of his many nightmares.

Karpov stood by the chair, a fascinated look on his face as he studied Bucky. In his hands, he held the damned red book, and Bucky's stomach swooped as he laid eyes on it for the first time in years. He wondered what the notes would say about him now. They would probably speak about how all his careful conditioning had gone to waste, thrown out the window by the thoughtless and stupid Americans.

The truth was much simpler than even that. It hadn't been Alexander Pierce or the American HYDRA that had ruined the Winter Soldier.

It had been Steve Rogers.

Bucky's spine straightened and he clung to that, clutching it close to his heart.

 _Stevestevestevesteve_. The name echoed in his head with the rhythm of his heart.

"HYDRA has always wanted to create the perfect soldier," Karpov said conversationally, bringing Bucky's attention back to him. "They almost succeeded with you, but you weren't quite enough. They spent decades trying to improve you, to make you more like Steve Rogers." His eyes flicked over Bucky's shoulder, head cocking to the side. "They thought you were dead, Captain, but believe me when I say that if you hadn't been frozen and presumed dead, they would have found you and tried to bring you into our fold. To see how you worked and to see if it was possible to duplicate."

Steve didn't say anything, but Bucky could imagine the defiant look rippling across his face at Karpov's words.

 _-I can do this all day-_

 _-Yeah, I know, Steve, but you realize that guy was twice your size right? You don't always have to bleed to make your point-_

Bucky flinched at the echo of a half-remembered memory, but when he tried to bring it to the front of his mind, it scattered into dark corners.

"Now that I actually have you, I've been told that I can do whatever I have to, to make you like our Soldier." Karpov paused. "Imagine it. Two of the most deadly men in history, working for the greater good. Together, you both will be the Right and Left Hands of HYDRA."

Bucky's throat was sandpaper dry, but he swallowed and said, "Is one Fist of HYDRA not good enough anymore." He didn't give Karpov a chance to answer. "Just get on with it. Scrub me and freeze me; isn't that what you were ordered to do?"

Karpov blinked at Bucky, seeming to come out of his self-righteous haze.

"No," he said finally, appraising Bucky carefully. "Those are not my orders."

Bucky's chest tightened. So torture would come before they scrubbed him. Alright then.

"First, you must be reminded why you must never go against our orders or HYDRA itself."

"So do it," Bucky sneered, dipping his chin. Fear was buzzing in his skull, but he wasn't the type of man to back down from a fight, that much he knew about himself.

"Oh, we will," Karpov said and then nodded to the soldiers.

Bucky braced for hands to lock around his arms and to drag him to the chair—it didn't just steal his memories, it was also an effective torture device, but the hands didn't do that.

Instead, he was shoved to the wall, back forced up against it, and then watched in silent horror as Steve was shuffled forward and slammed into the chair in his place.

Panic rose in Bucky's throat as he realized that Karpov was going to kill two birds with one stone. He would remind Bucky why going against HYDRA was a fruitless act _and_ begin the first round of breaking Steve Rogers.

"No," he said, but his voice was too quiet and no one even glanced at him.

He shook his head and said again, "No!" It was stronger this time, but Karpov didn't look at him, eyes glued to where Steve's struggling limbs were being restrained. There was a sickly gleam on his face and Bucky wondered if that was how he looked when he experimented on Bucky.

"Steve— _nonono_ ," Bucky shouted, feeling himself beginning to crack a little more. This wasn't supposed to be how it went. They weren't supposed to make him watch while the man, who was apparently his best and oldest friend, was put through the same punishment that he had had to endure.

Steve caught his eyes, and while there was fear in the depths of them, none of that emotion showed on his face.

"It's going to be okay, Bucky," Steve said. "Just...don't watch."

Steve's mouth was forced open a second later and a rubber mouth guard was shoved inside, cutting off whatever else he might have said.

Bucky's tongue curled at the memory of the same thing being forced into his own mouth.

Karpov wasn't facing Bucky, but he said over his shoulder, "Do not let him look away. He must see just what happens when he tries to fight us." Karpov paused and then turned, eyeing Bucky. "Let me explain further. If you fight me, I will hurt him." He jerked his chin at Steve, who growled back through the rubber. He looked at Steve, a small smile on his lips. "And if you, Captain, continue to defy me, I will hurt your Bucky. Comply, and the pain will stop for both of you."

Bucky's throat bobbed as he swallowed roughly. Karpov's words were meaningless; he would hurt both of them no matter what, but maybe the pain would lessen if they gave in. But that wasn't an option, especially not for Steve. Right?

Bucky looked past Karpov to Steve.

Steve's face was etched into a glare and there was no sign of compliance on his face. He gave Bucky a strong nod, and just like that Bucky knew that neither of them was going to give up. They were going to fight like hell. No matter what was done to them, they were going to hold onto _who_ and _what_ they were.

They were going to hold on to each other, and just maybe they would survive this.

.

.

It felt like time was running out, but it hadn't even been two days since HYDRA had taken Bucky and Steve, and yet Clint knew that anything could have happened in those two days.

Bucky's memories could be gone.

Steve could be beaten within an inch of his life.

Or maybe he was dead. Clint didn't know much, but he knew Steve wasn't going to bend to HYDRA's will, and if they couldn't break him, than they would kill him.

He felt like he was the only one that cared. Fury's compound was almost up and running again. The dead were buried, tech was back up, and the rest of the agents were working again like nothing had happened.

As for Tony, Clint hadn't seen him since HYDRA had taken over the base.

He wasn't sure he even _wanted_ to see him because he knew that if he did, he wouldn't be able to hold himself back this time.

For a second, he imagined his knuckles smashing into Tony's face, knocking the smug and self-righteous look right off.

But then reality kicked in and Clint stiffened, fingers freezing on the keys of his laptop; there was someone else in his room—although, it had never really felt like his room, and everything he owned was packed away in a bag and shoved under his bed.

"Clint." It was Natasha. _Of course_ it was her. She was the only one brave enough to face him when he was like this. Or maybe, no one else bothered trying to talk to him; it wasn't like he had many friends in SHIELD or on the Avengers team.

Usually when she came to see him after a rough mission, the tension would leave his body and they would shake off everything that went wrong, but now, hearing her voice, the strain in his shoulders only increased.

He looked up from his laptop, shoving it off his knees and onto his mattress while he turned to face Natasha. She was standing just inside the threshold of his room. Her face was unreadable, even to him, and her hands hung loosely at her sides in a non-threatening manner.

"What?" he said, not bothering to soften his voice.

Out of everyone, her betrayal stung the most. They had always had each other's back, but now, after what had gone down in the basement, he didn't know where they stood. The drugs might be out of his system, but he could still feel how his limbs had frozen, leaving him useless to help anyone.

She studied him for a long moment and took a slow step further into the room. Clint's lips thinned, but he didn't demand she leave.

Maybe he was pathetic, but they had been friends and partners for too long, and, frankly, Clint didn't have anyone else anymore.

But that didn't change the anger and betrayal thrumming in his chest at what she had done to him.

"Any luck?" she finally said, nodding at his laptop.

He was no tech whiz, not like Stark, but he knew his way around a computer, and while all the trackers that had been put on Bucky and Steve were offline, he needed to be doing something.

So he had been looking at different HYDRA bases that Fury had found cleaned out by what remained of SHIELD over the past few months to see if he could find a connection in their locations.

So far, he hadn't found anything useful. Nothing that would give him a direction to lead him to Bucky and Steve.

He shook his head at Natasha. "Nothing."

"We'll find them," she said, taking another step closer. Her voice was softening, and he could see her shoulders relaxing.

"Maybe," Clint said, sliding off his bed and standing to face her head on, "but is that before or after HYDRA cracks them open?"

Natasha blinked at him. He glared back.

"If that happens, we will help them through it," she said slowly.

"Like how I helped you?" Clint sneered. He snapped his mouth shut, teeth clacking together from the sudden motion. He wished he could take the words back, chew them up and swallow them down, but it was too late and they hit their desired target.

Natasha stiffened, her face paling as the blood drained from her cheeks. Her dark eyes glinted and her lips tightened.

She nodded once and flashed her teeth at Clint before turning on her heel and going back the way she had come, leaving Clint alone once again.

He wanted to run after her, to shout an apology, to say that it had been cruel of him to bring up her warped and bloody past and that he knew better than anyone how it haunted her, but he didn't.

He was frozen, staring at the empty doorway to the hall beyond it.

They had fought before. They had hurt each other before, but that had been _before_.

Before they really knew each other, and they were just two dangerous and broken people trying to work together.

They had gotten past that, and were now partners, friends, more than friends—family.

Clint raked his hands through his hair in a rough motion, glaring at his silent room; if he wasn't careful he was going to lose everyone. And then he would be alone again.

.

.

Steve was hurtled back into his cell by the soldiers. He hit the damp floor with a thump. His arms and legs felt like rubber and couldn't support the rest of his body when he tried to get up, and he crumbled to the cement again.

His cheek pressed against the stone, but he couldn't really feel the cold or wet. His whole body was buzzing and shuddering with the after-effects of what the chair had done to him.

He wasn't positive what _had_ been done. But the shockwaves of pain had traveled to every inch of his body, and while he tried not to scream at first, he soon gave up the fight and he couldn't stop the cries from tearing his throat.

Through it all, Bucky had stood at the wall, facing him, silent and white.

He couldn't tell what had been going through Bucky's head while he watched, but just having him there was enough to give Steve something to hold on to.

Steve forced his eyes open, and tried to peer through the bars of his cell and the gloom to where Bucky's cell sat.

Bucky wasn't there, and Steve was alone.

A shuddering breath rippled through him as he sucked in a lungful of air. It wasn't enough and for a moment he felt like he was suffocating.

Was this what it had been like for Bucky when he had first been taken by HYDRA, or did they start out slow, using brute force to beat him into submission before moving on to more complex means of torture?

He shook those thoughts away. If he let guilt cloud his mind, they weren't going to get out of this. Besides, Bucky didn't blame him.

The fact that he even had a chance to talk to Bucky about what had happened, and in turn be forgiven, was almost absurd to think about. Steve had never imagined that he would be able to talk to Bucky about _anything_ again, much less the regret that had dogged his steps since his friend had fallen off the train all those years ago.

His eyes slipped closed and he might have dozed off, despite the pain racking his body. He didn't know how long he laid on the cold floor, eyes flickering open every now and then to stare at where Bucky should have been, before the door opened again and Bucky was shoved in.

The soldiers deposited him in his cell without a word and then left as silently as they had come. It was unnerving how Bucky moved with them, letting them do what they wanted without a fight.

Steve knew that they had agreed not to fight back yet, but still, the Bucky he knew had clawed his way through life, fighting for every scrap.

Using his hands, Steve shoved himself into a sitting position, wincing at the tremors that still ran through his body, but he could already feel strength returning; the serum was doing its work and was healing his body. He would be alright in an hour or so. Physically at least, mentally...well, that might take a while longer.

Bucky wasn't moving in his cell, but Steve couldn't see any wounds on him. Of course, that didn't really mean anything, considering what had been done to him.

Bucky's head was bowed and his body was slumped, spine curving forward while his chin dipped close to his chest.

"Bucky?" Steve croaked, voice catching his throat. He coughed and licked his lips and then tried again. "Bucky, are you okay?"

Bucky's shoulders twitched and he shifted, straightening and looking at Steve with hollow eyes.

Steve's heart stopped; did they already take his memories? Was Bucky gone, replaced by the Winter Soldier? Or was this just a shell of both?

Bucky blinked and life flared back into his eyes, and Steve's heart started to work again.

"Are you okay?" Bucky asked quietly, tossing the question back to Steve. "You're the one that spent an hour in the chair."

Steve wanted to shrug away the concern, but remnants of pain still tingled along his skin and he shook his head.

"It was...hard," he finally said.

"It's only the beginning," Bucky said, pulling his knees up to his chest. He couldn't wrap his arms around them because his hands were still cuffed, and it seemed like he was just making himself more uncomfortable, but something about the position must have helped to calm him because he took a couple of shallow breaths and when he looked at Steve again, he gaze was steady.

"I know," Steve said. "I'm not sure how long we can last. The chair is one thing, but what happens when they start taking your memories?"

"Just mine?" Bucky said with a grim smile. "They're not going to leave yours alone."

Steve's teeth clenched at the thought of Karpov plucking out the only things he had left of his past. What would happen to them if they both lost themselves to HYDRA?

"But maybe he won't," Bucky said after a moment of eyeing Steve's huddled form. "Maybe he'll just take mine and make you watch. He said as much back there." His chin jerked towards the closed door.

Steve thought about that possibility.

"That might be worse," he said, giving Bucky a quick look; he hadn't meant to say that aloud. What could be worse for Bucky than losing everything that made him Bucky? It was selfish of Steve to only think of himself and what he would have to go through (again) to get his Bucky back.

"Yeah," Bucky said, surprising Steve. "It would be."

They fell into silence, lost to their thoughts about what might be coming for them, until Bucky shifted his legs down and scooted closer to the bars.

"What do we know about this place?"

Steve copied the movement, vaguely noticing that the pain was almost completely gone.

"I can get us from our cells to the room with the chair without a problem, and there are several hallways that look promising. Nothing that looks like an exit, but we won't know until we actually go looking."

Bucky nodded and then added, "This place is old, could be from the first wave of HYDRA in the States, and we can use that to our advantage. Old things are easier to break."

Steve threw him a grin. "Not all old things."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Alright, old man, not all old things."

"Old man? Do I look old to you, Buck?"

"Looks aren't everything. I can still beat your ass six ways to Sunday," Bucky shot back.

"You can try."

Bucky's eyes narrowed, but his lips betrayed him when he broke into a bright grin.

It was the first time Steve had seen Bucky smile in what felt like decades, and his own lips pulled back into a smile of their own accord.

For a moment they were just two friends, grinning at each other like idiots, but then the reality of their situation settled back on them, cracking the illusion.

The grin slipped off Bucky's lips and his face darkened. "The chair was an older model than the one that they used on me in D.C."

Steve wanted to ask how he remembered that, but he knew that Bucky didn't have a say in what memories came back and which ones stayed hidden in the corners of his mind.

"Okay, so how do we get out of this?" Steve said, bringing the conversation back to the most important bit.

Bucky was silent for a moment and then said, "We get out of this together."

It wasn't exactly what Steve was asking, but he nodded grimly. "Together or not at all."

.

.

The blank computer screen was mocking Tony. He glared at it, hands tightening around the ceramic mug of coffee that someone had shoved at him hours ago.

He hadn't found anything useful, no matter how hard he looked. HYDRA, and consequently Steve and Barnes, remained hidden from him.

He gulped a mouthful of the coffee and then grimaced, swallowing the cold liquid.

"You should have drank that when I gave it to you." Natasha's voice startled him, and he jerked violently, spilling the coffee onto his hands. If it had been hot, he would have been burned, so he had one good thing going for him in an otherwise shitty day.

"You gave it to me?" Tony said, sitting up and carefully putting the cup down at the desk. He had borrowed an office from some random SHIELD agent so that he could work in silence, and no one had dared bother him, except Natasha apparently.

"Hmm," Natasha hummed. She was settled comfortably in the only other chair in the small room. Although, Tony would have said that the hard plastic chair was anything but comfortable, but somehow she still managed to lounge in it like it was plush and cushioned.

"How long have you been there?" Tony asked, rubbing at the coffee on his hand.

Natasha arched an eyebrow, nodding at his cold coffee. "Since I handed that to you."

Tony grimaced; he wasn't all there if he was asking for clarification on a simple A+B=C question that had already been answered. He was usually smarter than that.

Working on trying to find Steve had really forced him into his own head, especially if he hadn't even noticed when Natasha had come in. But this was Natasha, and she moved like a ghost on her bad days.

"Any progress?" Natasha asked a moment later. The words seemed to stick in her mouth and for a brief second her mask cracked and weariness and guilt clouded her features.

Tony eyed her, watching as she made any emotion other than cool detachment disappear. He cleared his throat and didn't answer her question. Instead, he said, "It wasn't your fault that Steve was taken."

"No," Natasha said, surprising him with her easy agreement. "It was both of ours."

Tony's lips twisted against the remorse crawling up his throat.

"We didn't have a choice with Barnes," Tony said, getting the words out with difficulty.

Natasha eyed him, sitting up. "Yes, we did. We just chose our people over him."

"They would have killed everyone and taken him anyway," Tony said, anger igniting in his ribcage. He wasn't sure who it was directed towards, but it felt better than the crushing guilt from the past day. "We saved lives. Even if we betrayed our friends to do it."

Natasha remained silent, waiting for more.

Tony obliged. "Steve wasn't in the right frame of mind. You saw him, he didn't care who got hurt as long as Barnes made it out alive. That isn't the man we both know; he would have regretted it when HYDRA killed the whole base to get to Barnes." He paused. "He didn't want to choose between the lives of innocents and his oldest friend. I don't fault him for that." What a lie that was. "So, we took that choice away from him. Now he gets to blame us." And he would. Steve wouldn't forgive him if Barnes didn't come back from HYDRA's clutches, but at this point, Tony wasn't even sure if Steve was going to be coming back.

"And Clint?" Natasha said, head tilting to the side.

Tony's lips curled; Steve was his friend, but Clint would probably never be now. "The same goes for him. He wasn't thinking. What you did to stop him, had to be done."

"No, I didn't have to do that," Natasha said with a small shake of her head. "I could have trusted him."

"He would have gotten us all killed."

"Or he would have figured something out. We could have worked together."

"There wasn't time for that," Tony said, but Natasha wasn't looking at him.

"He's my partner and I trust him. Especially after Budapest." She had a distant look gleaming in her eyes, and Tony knew there was story there, but he also knew she would never tell him. Just like how she would never admit that Clint wasn't just her partner. They were clearly more, but the deadly assassin sitting in front of him was never going to say aloud just what they were.

"Well," Tony said, sitting back in his chair and wincing at the movement. "Now we have to live with our choice."

"It wouldn't be the first time," Natasha said softly.

Tony gave her a look, wondering what parts of her past were haunting her, but he had enough of his own past to deal with that he didn't really want to know.

They fell silent, and Tony turned back to his computer, fingers skimming along the keys as he tried to figure out a way to track the HYDRA agents.

He felt isolated in Fury's compound, like there wasn't anything else outside and everything he had back home no longer existed. It was an unsettling feeling, and didn't do much to boost his morale.

He sat back in his chair in disgust after a few more keystrokes, rubbing a hand down his face. His normally well-trimmed goatee prickled under his fingers, and he knew it probably looked a mess, but he couldn't be bothered to care. There was too much to worry about.

Glaring at the screen, Tony tried to wrap his head around the fact that in the past few days, he had found his parents' killer and then subsequently lost him _and_ Steve.

Almost as if she had heard his thoughts, Natasha broke the silence and said, "What about Barnes?"

Tony shifted his focus to her and offered her a frown. "What about him?"

"Are you going to kill him when we find Steve?"

"When?" Ton said, arching an eyebrow. "Confident, aren't you? Hell, who am I kidding? I'll find them. We all know how good I am." The flippant words were hollow and they both knew it.

Natasha waited for a real answer, staring at him from her chair.

He heaved a sigh and said, "I forgot that you weren't there for our heart to heart back in the basement. I tried to kill him, but then I didn't. I beat his face in, we talked and I didn't kill him."

"Why?"

"Because I know that he's just as much a victim as my parents were."

"But you haven't forgiven him," Natasha said, leaning closer.

Tony frowned. "Yes, I have. I didn't kill him." It felt important to state that fact again.

"Not killing him isn't the same thing as forgiveness," Natasha said with a small shrug. "Forgiveness doesn't just happen because you want it to. It has to be worked at, and earned." She gave him a long look. "Barnes hasn't earned it yet in your eyes. Maybe he never will."

"You don't know that," Tony said, anger growing that she was trying to put her own ideas of Barnes into his head. "I don't know what your problem is with him, but stop trying—"

"I don't have any problem with him," Natasha cut in.

Tony narrowed his eyes at her, but couldn't tell if she was lying or not.

"Neither do I," Tony snapped back.

Natasha's head cocked to the side. "Maybe."

Maybe he hadn't forgiven Barnes, but Tony didn't want to think about that too hard (because Natasha might be right).

He focused on Natasha. He expected her to keep going, giving him more examples of why he hated Barnes, but she didn't. She gave him another pointed look and settled back into her chair. That surprised him a bit; she wasn't the type to stick around after she had said her piece, but then Tony remembered that she was on the outs with Clint, and it all made a lot more sense.

She didn't want to be alone.

Hell, neither did Tony, especially after the part they both played in what had happened to Steve.

And gradually, with Natasha sitting in silence, Tony felt some of his loneliness ease.

.

.

A/N: Bit of a slow chapter, but they kinda needed to start talking to each other and try to figure out their feelings about what happened.

I feel like I had more to say, but I've got a killer headache and I just want to sleep, so I'm gonna leave it here.

Thanks for the reviews/favorites/etc. I love them all!


	17. Chapter 17

[17]

A few days had passed. Bucky didn't know how many exactly, but he could feel the hours slipping by.

Karpov was playing with them. He hadn't done anything drastic to either Steve or Bucky in the past couple of days; as in, he hadn't taken Bucky's memories or free will. Yet.

Of course, that didn't mean they weren't suffering at his hands.

Steve had sat in the chair twice more, and each time Bucky cursed himself when he felt a swell of relief that it wasn't him.

His stomach would clench when they were taken out of their cells and escorted to the room, but then it would loosen as Steve was forced into the metal chair and Bucky wasn't.

 _Fucking coward._

Hot shame flooded him, spreading from his numb toes to his twitches fingers. He stared at the metal bars on his cell, trying not to think about Steve taking the brunt of the pain and torture, even as the other man sat in his own cell just across the room.

He knew his time was coming, but Karpov was making him wait.

Instead of the chair, they beat him with their fists and kicks, pounding him into the hard ground until his skin broke and bled. Sometimes they would strap him to a metal table and use tools to help with his rehabilitation; the floor would be covered in slippery red blood when they were finished with him, but he hadn't given in to them.

 _This_ , he could handle. This bloody and aching pain that came from men and women, he could deal with. It felt familiar, like something he could slip right back into getting used to.

But the burning waves of pain that came from the chair was something else entirely. It washed over his body, melting his bones and brain until they were malleable and could be twisted into whatever shape HYDRA wanted. And they wanted him to be all edges, sharp enough to cut yourself on. He didn't want to be that.

He didn't want _any_ of that.

He didn't want to forget who he was again. Even if he wasn't the same man Steve had known, Bucky wasn't willing to let go of this new person he had discovered among the ruins of his mind. This person he had become was broken and wrecked, but he was a fighter too, and Bucky knew that, given enough time, he would be okay.

But the chair was coming to take all that away; Karpov had put it off for too long, and whoever was running HYDRA now would want the Winter Soldier operational soon.

Bucky took a breath, pushing himself up from the ground that he was currently bleeding on. They had taken the cuffs off his hands at some point (he couldn't remember when it had happened, but his hands were finally free again), but they had left the cuff around his neck, making him think that it was a shock collar of some kind. It was humiliating, but he didn't think too hard about it.

"Bucky?" Steve rasped from his end of the room. "Are you okay?"

Bucky hummed back, feeling his teeth with his tongue; none of them were loose, despite the beating his face had taken. He hoped the men had broken their knuckles on his hard head. Served them right.

"We can't keep this up," Steve said.

"No," Bucky agreed, around a mouthful of blood that welled up. He spat it to the ground and shifted closer to the bars. "They're almost done playing with us."

Steve let out a grim laugh. "This is playing for them?"

Bucky didn't bother to answer that. "Karpov is going to take my memories soon. He'll probably start slow; they can't take them all at once." They used to try to wipe him in one go, and it never ended well for anyone; after he killed one too many doctors after basically going rabid from their fingers in his brain, they had started slowing the process down. "They'll make you watch," he added, almost as an after-thought, but it was anything but that.

Karpov was going to make Steve lose Bucky all over again, and Bucky was going to slowly lose his mind, wondering who the other man in the room was.

A shudder shook him, but he clamped down on the fear. He instead, let the anger in his chest burn and strengthen.

"We need to get out of here," Steve said after a few beats of tense silence. "We can take them when they bring us through the hall. Its close quarters, giving us an advantage, and there's two of us."

"I don't know how far we'll get," Bucky said, "but if we don't try, we're never going to know what's beyond the hall." He had originally thought that the soldiers would bring them to other rooms for different parts of their "rehabilitation," but he had been wrong and now they were going to have to try escaping completely blind.

Steve's eyes gleamed in the dark across the room, and Bucky saw him nod grimly. "We'll get as far as we can."

"As far as we can," Bucky echoed quietly, and then without any warning—

" _As far as we can?" Bucky didn't bother keeping the disbelief out of his voice. His attitude was bordering on insubordinate, but he didn't care._

" _It's not ideal," Steve said, speaking up for the first time. His blue eyes found Bucky in the smoky tent; it was easy to see the warning in them, but Bucky was tired. Tired, and cold, and sick of this shitty war._

" _Not ideal?" Bucky said, eyes narrowing. "It's a fucking suicide mission!"_

" _Sergeant Barnes, are you going to offer anything to this discussion or are you just going to repeat every damn thing we say?" Philips said, glowering in the general direction of where Bucky was sitting with the rest of the Howling Commandos._

" _Sure," Bucky said, feeling an odd thrill at speaking back to the scariest man in the U.S. Army. He stood up, not bothering to pull out the creases in his green jacket or to really do anything to look presentable. "How about you tell us what exactly you need from the HYDRA base, and we'll get it, instead of telling us to attack it and, I quote, "get as far as we can." It's like you want us to die trying." He paused, giving a nasty grin to the commanding officers standing in the front of the tent. "Or is that what you want? A couple of us die, and you tell the American people of our sacrifice and then you sell some more war bonds?"_

 _Steve's mouth had popped open around the middle of Bucky's speech, and even while there was a delighted look in the back of his eyes, there was also unadulterated horror at the hole Bucky was digging himself into._

" _Barnes—," Philips growled._

" _Sorry, I forgot my place," Bucky interrupted, holding a hand up. "Let me try again: Do you want us to die? Sir?" He paused just long enough before adding 'sir' that it was very clearly an insult, and for a moment, Bucky couldn't believe what he was saying; he didn't know why he was trying to get his ass kicked—no that wasn't true. He knew why. He didn't want to go back to HYDRA, and he knew that given the chance (and this shitty plan), Zola and HYDRA would take him back, and this time Steve wouldn't save him. He would die in whatever black hole they dumped in, with needles forever poking into his skin and awful concoctions forced down his throat by Zola._

 _Philips looked like he was chewing his tongue off as he was trying to figure out the best language to deal with Bucky's defiance. Instead of speaking, he stalked forward, pushing the rest of Bucky's team out of the way until he was standing directly in front of Bucky._

 _They stood so close that Bucky could feel Philips' hot breath on his skin, but he didn't move. He sneered back and crossed his arms over his chest._

 _Philips' mouth opened, and Bucky waited for the dressing down, the orders to pack his shit because he was off Steve's team, the punch to his jaw...and he kept waiting._

 _Philips frowned and his mouth snapped shut. He stared at Bucky and took a slow step back._

 _Confused, Bucky didn't say anything, and only watched as Philips turned on his heel and paced back to the front of the tent. He stood by Steve and lowly said something to the other man._

 _Steve's eyes snapped to Bucky after a beat and his face slid into a blank mask._

" _Take care of your man, Rogers," Philips said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "We'll finish up here."_

 _It wasn't protocol, but Bucky had figured out a long time ago, that things were different when you were Captain America._

 _He watched for a second as Steve shifted through the open space of his men to Bucky's side._

" _Heya, Steve," Bucky said with a shit-eating grin._

 _Steve didn't respond. He only grabbed Bucky's arm and forced him out of the tent into the cool night air._

 _Bucky shrugged Steve's hand off, and then pretended to fix the creases on his jacket, while he waited for Steve to start yelling at him, but Steve only stared at him, arms crossed tightly over his chest._

 _Bucky shot him a look and, for maybe the first time in his life, he couldn't figure out what Steve was thinking._

 _The silence stretched and Bucky shifted uncomfortably. "So. Am I getting kicked out? Sent to the front lines?"_

 _Steve shook his head. "No."_

 _Bucky's eyes narrowed. "Then what did Philips say to you?"_

" _He said," Steve said with a long look, "that you wanted to die."_

 _Bucky blinked. "Excuse me?"_

" _You heard me."_

" _But I don't want to die—,"_

" _He said that he could see it in your eyes. He said that you were picking a fight because you were scared. He said that you would rather die than go back to HYDRA."_

" _He saw all that in my eyes, huh?" Bucky said with a snort._

" _No, but he's not wrong. You've been—"_

" _Been what?" Bucky said, anger suddenly coursing through him. He jerked forward to jab a finger at Steve's broad chest. "Off-kilter? A little crazy?"_

" _No," Steve said calmly. "You've been different, and I know that it's because of this damn war. It's because of what happened in that POW camp."_

 _That shut Bucky up. He took a step away and turned his back on Steve. He carefully contained the trembling that had suddenly overtaken him, letting it travel down his body before shaking it out through his hands._

 _He heard Steve sigh quietly behind him. "I'm not going to ask you what happened—"_

" _Good, because I'm not telling you."_

"— _but if you need to go home...you can. You don't have to stay just because I'm here. You deserve to rest."_

 _Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and, for a second, he imagined going home to Brooklyn, to his family, but he banished the thought as quickly as it came._

" _Fuck off, Rogers," he said, spinning back around to eye Steve's surprised face. "I'm not going anywhere. Me and you, pal. End of the line."_

 _A small smile cracked across Steve's features. Relief too, if Bucky was reading his friend right._

" _Alright. But then you've got to pull it together, Buck. Philips will let this go, but he won't if you try this shit again."_

 _Bucky nodded. "Yessir, Captain." He threw Steve a sly grin as Steve rolled his eyes and shoved Bucky with his hand._

" _Cut that out."_

 _They both started back towards the tent's flap, but before they went back in, Bucky grabbed Steve's arm, holding him back._

" _I don't want to die, Steve."_

 _Steve looked back at him, and for a wild moment, Bucky thought that Steve could see the thoughts of Zola and the POW camp racing behind his eyelids, and the absolute lie that he had just uttered._

 _Because here was the truth: He didn't want to die, but he didn't want to live either. Not if Zola was going to take him back and finish what he started._

—Reality pounded its way back into Bucky's mind and he let out a harsh breath as the memory flashed through his mind and settled itself firmly in his brain. It didn't disappear or grow dim; it stayed exactly in place.

His hands slapped down onto the hard floor; he was dizzy and needed something to ground him. The cold seeped into his flesh hand and traveled up his arm, but he hardly noticed.

"Bucky?"

The memory had come out of nowhere, and for the first time, it involved Steve. Bucky didn't care that it wasn't a nice memory or that he and Steve were at odds for most of it—he finally remembered something that wasn't pain and blood and death.

"Buck! Talk to me? What's going on?" Steve's worried voice finally broke into Bucky's mind. He blinked rapidly, chasing away the last images of the past, before he looked back up to Steve, who was shoved up against the bars of his cell, staring at Bucky with wide eyes.

"I'm fine," Bucky said.

Steve eased out a breath and loosened his grip on the metal bars. He raked a hand through his hair, leaving it sticky up at odd angles.

"You didn't look fine. You just stopped talking. Then went pale and sort of blank." He paused. "I thought maybe Karpov had put a trigger word into your subconscious, and that I had tripped it somehow."

Bucky's mouth curled at that thought; he wouldn't have put it past Karpov. Who knew what was rattling around in his head; it would probably be years before he managed to clean it out—if he ever did.

"I just...remembered something," Bucky said haltingly.

Steve's mouth thinned and he nodded grimly. "What was it? Wait, you don't have to answer."

Bucky felt an odd swell of emotion at that. Steve wasn't pushing him for the details of his memories, because he knew that most of the memories weren't pleasant, and from the memory he had just recovered, Bucky now knew that Steve wasn't the type of man that would ever force anything from him.

No, not just the type of man. He was the type of friend.

The word felt right on his tongue, like it was had been a missing piece of his vocabulary and he had only just rediscovered it.

Realizing that Steve was silent, still waiting for him to speak, Bucky shook himself and said, "No, it was a good one. Or good enough." He eyed Steve. "You were in it."

Steve's eyes widened. "I was?"

"We were in some tent for a briefing, during the war. I was talking back to...Philips?"

Recollection sparked across Steve's face, even from the scant details. "I remember that. I thought Philips was going to have you flayed alive." He snorted. "You were a bit of a shit back then, Bucky. Still are," he added with a pointed look.

Bucky shrugged. "It's a gift."

They grinned at each other, but like most things in Bucky's life, the moment didn't last.

The door clanged open and Karpov entered with a handful of soldiers. They were back early, despite the fact that Bucky had already been beaten bloody only hours ago.

Bucky exchanged a look with Steve; it wasn't outwardly panicked or worried, but Bucky would be lying if he said he _wasn't_ feeling those emotions.

A dark flicker shifted in Steve's eyes, and Bucky knew that this was it. This was the moment that Steve had had enough; he was going to try and escape. Or at least, get as far as he could.

Neither of them expected to get far—they had said as much before Bucky had gone down memory lane—they had both suffered at the hands of Karpov only hours before and were weak, but they couldn't just sit in their cages anymore.

Bucky's cell door clicked open and two soldiers stepped inside. Their weapons were holstered, but Bucky could see the strained tension in their shoulders and the way their hands brushed their side-arms in anticipation.

HYDRA had always known to fear the Winter Soldier, and the thought warmed Bucky, even in his current situation.

"Up," one of them said, motioning with his hand.

Bucky eyed them and slowly eased himself up. He winced, limbs stiff from sitting on the floor in one position for so long. He carefully stretched his arms, trying to shake them out.

Across the room, Steve getting the same treatment from his group of soldiers. Steve's shoulders were bunched tight, and Bucky could see, even with only half his attention, that Steve was about to enact their shaky plan _right damn now_.

"Aw shit," Bucky muttered, and shot out his metal arm, hitting one of the soldiers in the chest and sending him into the wall a short distance away. He hit the wall hard and then crumbled to the ground. He didn't get back up.

The second soldier let out a startled yell, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Bucky was aware that Steve was fighting back against his soldiers too, but Bucky's attention stayed on the soldier in his cell as he went for the weapon at his belt.

Bucky's flesh hand grabbed the soldier's coat, fingers bunching into the black cloth and jerking him closer. There was a flash of fear in the man's eyes and his mouth opened to beg or cry, but then Bucky let go of the coat and punched his metal fist into the soldier's exposed throat.

The soldier gagged and choked, both hands automatically going for his crushed throat.

Bucky reached forward, grabbing the soldier by the shoulders and throwing him into the open cell door. A loud clang echoed through the room when he hit the metal bars. He fell to the floor, body blocking anyone from trying to lock Bucky back inside in the cell; they would have to move the motionless body first.

The room was incoherent with shouts and the muffled sound of fists smacking into flesh. No one was firing their weapons yet, which was a good thing; Bucky didn't think that even Steve could survive that.

Bucky stepped over the fallen soldier, joining the fray. Karpov had disappeared back out into the hall, possibly for backup, but more likely because he wasn't prepared to die at Bucky or Steve's hands.

Bucky's eyes narrowed; he wanted to kill Karpov, but he turned his focus to the remaining HYDRA soldiers that still filled the small room with their panicked frenzy.

A quick look Steve's way confirmed that most of the soldiers had converged on him, but Bucky knew that he was more than capable of handling them on his own, and instead he stalked towards the door, guarded by only three soldiers. Their fingers were tight on their weapons, and Bucky was sure they were ordered not to kill him, but he also knew the fear of men was sometimes more powerful than orders from superiors.

The Winter Soldier was coming for them, so they did what any smart person did and fired their weapons.

The bullets cracked out of their guns, and Bucky jerked up his metal arm, catching the bullets before they could do any damage. They ricocheted off the silver metal, bouncing wildly back the way they came. Two of the bullets hit one of the soldiers, sending him down to the ground, while the other two somehow remained unscathed.

But not for long.

Bucky was on them seconds later and they died with his hands around their necks.

He spared another glance at Steve, and then stepped over the bodies into the hall, which was bathed in a red glow from flashing alarm lights, but there was no loud blaring to accompany it.

It was dead silent, except for the cries of pain that Steve was inflicting behind him.

A shiver worked its way up Bucky's spine.

"Steve..." he said, almost turning back the way he came, but then Karpov appeared from one of the few doorways in the hall. His skin glowed red from the lights, but his teeth flashed white as he grinned at Bucky. He didn't appear scared at all, and Bucky's unease grew, but that didn't stop his anger at Karpov from growing in his chest, overcoming any sense that this might be a trap.

"Karpov," Bucky growled, jerking forward. He didn't care if this failed escape attempt ended with him strapped to the chair, he _was_ going to kill Karpov.

Even from the distance, he saw Karpov's eyes widened in fear or surprise, he didn't know which. Maybe Karpov had expected him to beg for mercy or to go back the way he came, but he had to know that Bucky would never let him live, not after everything that he had put them through.

A quick beat later, Karpov's hand rose and he pointed some sort of grey device at Bucky.

Bucky frowned, only feet away from Karpov now; he didn't know what the device was, but he found out quickly enough when the collar encircled around his neck abruptly sent waves of pain throughout his entire body, stopping him short.

His metal arm straightened with a snap and his whole body went rigid as if he was being jerked up by strings fastened to his back. A second later he crashed face-first into the floor. His head smashed against the tiles, splitting the thin skin of his forehead, but the pain was nothing compared to what the collar was doing.

He didn't know exactly what it was doing to him, but he _knew_ this feeling, and even as he writhed and twisted in pain on the ground, he wondered how Karpov had managed to duplicate the chair's effects into a simple collar.

Bucky didn't dwell on the inconsequential thoughts of Karpov and the collar; he was too busy trying to control the pain that was gripping his body. His bones felt like they were breaking and reforming, and not only that, but he couldn't breathe either; his neck was too tense from taking the brunt of the pain from the collar.

His fingers scrabbled against the floor, trying to find purchase to lift himself up, or maybe to just find an outlet to release the agony that was coursing through him.

He could vaguely hear yelling above him, and he hoped Steve was gone—that he had left him behind to find an escape somewhere in the building. He didn't doubt Steve's abilities to clear the cell room of HYDRA soldiers, and he wondered when his trust in the other man had become so prominent, but then he supposed that being tortured together by HYDRA was enough to make even a brainwashed assassin learn to trust again.

Abruptly, the pain stopped and Bucky gasped for air, breath ragged against his raw throat—he must have been screaming, but he sucked in the pure air as quickly as he was able, even as it rubbed against his raw lungs.

Tears were thick in his eyes, and Bucky blinked them away, trying to prop himself up on his hands, but they were shaking too bad to do anything but twitch against the hard floor.

His whole body was trembling with the after-effects of the collar, and he knew he couldn't get up. Not yet. So instead, he forced his body to roll so that he could at least see what was going on.

He shifted until he was on his side, blinking at the blood that was dripping from the cut on his forehead. It was fast and thick, and he was losing the battle to keep it out of his eyes.

Steve stood above him, strong and tall, even after what the chair had done to him.

"Bucky?" Steve said, anger making his words shake. He looked down at Bucky. "Are you okay?"

"No," Bucky rasped. "You should have left me." It didn't take a genius to figure out that Bucky and the collar had been only one of Karpov's failsafe measures. It had taken Bucky down, and with Bucky down, Steve wouldn't leave.

"I couldn't kill him," Steve said, jerking his chin down the hall.

Bucky stiffly twisted his head to look the way Steve pointed. Karpov had moved further away from where Bucky lay and was now surrounded by soldiers, too many to take on with Bucky in the state he was.

"You're stupid," Bucky said with a little puff of air. His body was starting to stop its screaming and he slowly forced himself up into a sitting position, back pressing against the wall. "You should have just left me."

Steve eyed him and some of his anger disappeared. "I did that once. I'm not doing it again."

Bucky nodded. "I know." He looked back to Karpov's smug face. "He knows it too."

Steve sent a glance to their captor, renewed anger flashing across his features. "This was all some sort of sick test?"

Bucky shrugged, or at least tried to. "Most likely. And we just gave him what he wanted."

Steve jerked back around to look at Bucky again, and then crouched down so they were eye level. "I'm not going to apologize for not leaving you."

"That's why you're stupid," Bucky said, grinning a little, despite their utter failure.

"We're stronger together," Steve said, ignoring the insults. "And Karpov is going to learn that."

"Is he?" Bucky murmured, leaning his head back against the wall. "Is that before or after he wipes me?"

Steve's hands were on Bucky's face moments later, forcing his head straight again. "Stay awake, Bucky." There was fear in Steve's voice, but Bucky was too tired to pay attention to it.

He slowly drifted off, only vaguely aware that Steve was being hauled away and that Karpov had replaced him.

.

.

"Barton."

Clint shifted, and then woke up completely. He was sitting up and out of his cot moments later.

His heart was just starting to pump hard against his ribs in a panic when the intruder in his room flicked on the lights, bringing artificial sunshine down on them.

Clint squinted in the sudden light at Fury, who was standing at his door.

"Fury?" His mouth was dry from his fitful doze. He licked his lips and swallowed the hard lump lodged in his throat. He blinked again at the other man; Clint was having a hard time processing the fact that Nick Fury himself was standing in his room. That only ever happened when he was in trouble or dying. Or both.

He raked a hand through his hair, fingernails scrapping against his scalp. The sharp sting helped wake him up a little more.

"What are you doing in here?" Clint asked. "Did you find them?" He was suddenly more alert.

Fury shook his head, and Clint's hope died in his chest.

"Stark's still working on it."

"It's been days," Clint snapped, sitting back down onto his cot to pull his boots on; he wouldn't be getting anymore sleep. "Steve and Bucky could be long gone by now." He didn't mean in the physical sense, and Fury knew it.

"We're doing our best, but any cameras we had on HYDRA when they left have been corrupted—"

"Or maybe Stark just doesn't give a shit," Clint interrupted, standing up. He tugged at his creased shirt and then pulled on a purple sweatshirt that had been discarded on his bed.

Fury didn't show any flicker of emotion at the accusation. "You know that's not true."

Clint didn't bother answering that. Sure he might know that it wasn't true, but Stark's betrayal was a sharp knife in his back and he wasn't ready to forgive him.

He turned his back on Fury, shoving his laptop and scattered clothes into a half-full backpack.

"What are you even doing down here, Fury," Clint said, back still turned. "You're the reason we're in this fucking mess."

"If you want to be specific, it was your mess first."

Clint froze, hands clutching his favorite K-BAR. He turned slowly, anger and guilt making his hands tremble.

Fury hadn't moved from the doorway and was watching him, unimpressed with the temper tantrum Clint was throwing.

"Weston was your mess," Fury continued with a nod. "And Weston is the reason HYDRA knew where to find Barnes."

Clint shook his head sharply. "Shut the fuck up, Fury," he snapped, finding his voice and anger again. "You don't get to push the blame onto me! This isn't my fault—"

"If you'd killed Weston when you had the chance—"

"You think that I could ever kill a defenseless, unconscious man? He was stuck in the car, and I wasn't going to put a bullet in him. Not even to save my own skin."

"It wouldn't have been the first time," Fury said evenly. He eyed Clint, knowledge of who Clint had been glimmering in his one good eye.

Clint knew that his past was neatly laid out for Fury in his thick file that Coulson had compiled, but the reminder of Clint's blood stained hands froze the retort in his mouth, and he swallowed roughly.

Fury took a slow step into the room. "I'm not here to blame you, Clint."

Clint would have snorted, but he stayed silent, fingers turning white from clutching the sheathed knife in his hands.

"I didn't want to drag up bad memories, but my point is that this isn't anyone's fault. It's not mine, it's not Stark's. And it isn't yours."

Clint didn't agree with that statement either, but he knew what Fury was doing. If it wasn't anyone's fault, than what was the point of being angry at each other? Fury wanted them all to hold hands and sing kumbaya apparently.

"So you want to me make nice with Stark, is that it?" Clint finally said. He was surprised at how calm he sounded; his insides were twisting and he felt vaguely sick.

"Among other things," Fury said with a small shrug. "You're one of my best agents, Barton."

The compliment was unexpected, and did nothing to lessen the sting of Fury's earlier comments.

"This is so fucked up," Clint said with a mirthless laugh. He picked up his backpack, shoving his knife into it and zipping it closed. "I'm out, Fury. I'm not staying here anymore. I need to have my boots on the ground. I need to be out there looking for them."

Fury, damn him, must have expected as much and he gave Clint a slow nod. "You're going by yourself?"

"Yeah," Clint said, slinging the black pack over his shoulders. "That's how it's always been, hasn't it?"

For the first time, Fury frowned, as if put off by that, but Clint didn't think it was far from the truth. It was like Fury had said in medical back when Clint had been stabbed by Matthews in Utah: No one was there. Not the Avengers, his so-called team, not his fellow SHIELD agents. Not even Natasha.

Natasha. Clint winced. That was a sore wound, still smarting after what had happened in the basement and the words he had flung in her face just days ago. They were too close to each other to let this fester between them indefinitely; they would make up and forgive each other, but Clint didn't think that he could until Steve and Bucky were safe again.

Clint pushed forward, getting into Fury's space until the other man moved out of the doorway. They stepped out into the hall together, and for a moment, Clint wondered if he was being impulsive and stupid for running out of the compound with exactly no plan other than to wander around until he found a lead on Bucky and Steve, but then he thought of the last few days of silence and loneliness that had been enveloping him.

As a sniper, he should be used to both things, and he was—to a point.

But with everything that had happened, both the silence and loneliness were weighing heavily on his shoulders, and Clint couldn't take it anymore.

He needed to get out.

Clint took a step forward, when Fury's hand found his arm, holding him in place.

Clint looked from the hand to Fury's face, raising his eyebrows.

"If it was anyone else, I would break their hand," Clint said.

Fury's teeth flashed in a brief smile. "I've seen you do it." He dropped his hand now that he had Clint's attention again. For a moment, it seemed like Fury didn't know what he wanted to say; Clint didn't think he had ever seen the other man look so unsure of himself.

"Be safe out there, Clint," Fury finally said, reaching out his hand.

Clint eyed the hand, hesitantly taking it with his own. Everything Fury wasn't saying was put into the handshake, and Clint knew that, in his own way, Fury was sorry for the part he had played. It was more than Clint expected from Fury, and while his anger at his commanding officer was a bitter taste on his tongue, Clint didn't hate him.

He didn't have anyone else, and he knew that Fury was someone that he could trust. Maybe not completely, but Fury had been a constant in his life since he was twenty odd years old. A relentless reminder to make the right choice, to be the good guy, to be a hero.

He was the only father Clint had left.

Clint squeezed Fury's hand, hoping that his unspoken words were understood too.

Then he turned on his heel and left.

.

.

A/N: Holy shit, this chapter kicked my ass.

Sorry it took so long to write and post, but clearly I was having some issues. I'm sorry if there are any errors throughout this chap, but I'm going cross-eyed from re-reading it.

Also, the flashback is legit my favorite part of this chapter. Probably the best written bit too...Maybe I should just write a whole fic about Steve and Bucky during the war...

Anyway. I *think* I know what I'm doing next, so hopefully the following chapters will come quickly.

As always, thank you to everyone favoriting/following/and especially reviewing. They keep me going!


	18. Chapter 18

[18]

"What do you mean he's gone?" Natasha's voice was smooth and low, and didn't hold much emotion, but even Tony could hear the warning laced into her words.

Fury didn't seem particularly bothered or worried about what she might do. He stood in the office with his arms crossed over his chest with an unimpressed look on his face as he eyed Natasha and Tony.

For all intents and purposes, it was business as usual for the director of SHIELD, even with Steve and Barnes, and now, Clint missing. Tony had seen agents moving outside the office door, breaking down the compound in preparation for moving; they couldn't stay now that a branch of HYDRA knew where they were. It almost seemed like everyone had forgotten that they were missing a vital player of their group, namely Captain Freaking America.

"He left a few hours ago," Fury said, pinning Natasha with a look Tony couldn't read. "I wasn't going to keep him here. He's better out in the field. You know that, Romanoff."

Natasha's lips thinned and her shoulders tensed under Fury's piercing gaze. Tony knew some hidden meaning was passing between them, but he didn't know what it was.

"But he's alone," Natasha said, and this time it was easy to hear the anger in her voice.

Something flashed across Fury's face, almost too quick for Tony to identify, but the concern etched into his skin had been too strong to miss.

"He's always been alone," Fury said tightly.

The concern and, probably, guilt on both Natasha and Fury's faces made sense now. Tony would be lying if he said he wasn't feeling it too.

Tony swallowed, trying to choke down the emotions that were swirling around him; he needed to focus. If Steve and Barnes hadn't escaped yet, they weren't going to without some help.

But he didn't think he was any closer to finding where they were being held, and whatever glimmer of hope he had been clinging to was starting to wear away.

Maybe they would never be found. After all, Barnes had remained hidden within HYDRA for 70 years before he was discovered by Steve, and Tony still couldn't get over the fact that Alexander Pierce had been stupid enough to send Barnes to the one person who would recognize him and do absolutely everything to save him.

Tony's mouth twisted; the bitterness of Steve's choice still burned faintly in his chest.

He tried to focus on Fury, who's genuine concern over Clint surprised Tony; he didn't think that man felt anything other than paranoia, but he couldn't—this was all his fault.

The thought came out of nowhere, crashing into him with a force that made him lose his breath.

No, that was a lie; it hadn't come out of nowhere. It had been there, hovering in the back of his mind since the basement, and it wasn't even an original idea; Clint had blamed him the first opportunity he got, and Tony secretly couldn't fault him for it.

Natasha and Fury's voices faded into the background as Tony worked through the internal guilt he had been pushing aside for the past few days, but there was no more denying it.

It was hard to admit, but Barnes, and consequently Steve, was gone because Tony had decided that they needed to surrender to HYDRA—that they couldn't fight anymore.

But he knew they could've. They were the Avengers, maybe only at half-strength, but still. The Avengers didn't give up. They kept going, kept grinding, until the enemy was gone or they were dead.

He just hadn't wanted to fight for Barnes.

The truth of it hit him heavily and Tony blindly reached for the edge of the desk he was working at, fingers flailing until they hit the wood. The physical touch helped ground him, and he clutched the wood tighter.

He had thought that the blood on Barnes' hands was too thick to wash off. Not just anyone's blood either. Barnes was stained with the kills of Maria and Howard Stark and victim or not, the man had taken everything from Tony—but Barnes had had everything taken from him too. Not just the people he loved, but his very identity.

Tony frowned; this train of thought was familiar, but the difference now was that Tony's heart was finally catching up to his brain. He hadn't wanted to accept what his mind had informed him back in the basement when he had decided to stop beating Barnes' face in.

His stomach clenched and he realized that even now, he still wanted to blame Barnes for _everything_ , but the truth was Tony just needed a face to pin his anger and guilt to. He just wanted to make someone bleed for what had happened to him.

Barnes had been the unlucky someone that Tony had chosen, unconsciously or not. But he didn't want to feel the anger and hate that clung to his skin anymore.

He wanted his friends back.

He wanted this whole thing to be over.

He just wanted to feel peace again.

"Stark? Tony?"

Tony's gaze sharpened and he swiveled his chair around, focusing on Natasha. The office was empty, except for the two of them. She was frowning, standing in front of the desk with her hands balled into tight fists at her sides. She eyed him, but didn't comment on his lack of attention.

He didn't ask where Fury had gone off to; the answer was all around them. The compound had to be salvaged as best as it could be, and Fury needed to oversee it all. There wasn't going to be any help from the man who really started this whole thing. Bastard.

"I'm going after Clint," Natasha said abruptly. "You can come with me or stay. I don't care, but I'm leaving now."

 _Ouch_. The words hurt, even with a lack of anger in them. It was the fact that she was choosing someone else over him that was stinging— _Steve chose Barnes_ —, but Tony knew that she didn't mean the words to wound; she was just worried about Clint. With good reason. If Tony had to make a hypothesis, he would say that Clint was a bit of a wildcard and probably ended up hurt more often than not.

Natasha didn't wait for an answer before turning on her heel and leaving Tony alone in the borrowed office.

Tony stared blankly at her retreating back before springing to his feet and pounding after her.

"Romanoff! Wait up!"

She paused, half-turning and quirking an eyebrow at him, but waited until he was at her side before starting down the hall again.

Tony kept pace with her, trying not to think about how he felt like he was abandoning Steve (and Barnes). He knew that it wasn't true. Wherever Clint was heading, he was trying to find them too. And despite what Tony thought sometimes, he knew Clint wasn't a moron and had to have a source that was (hopefully) leading him to the HYDRA base.

Either way, Tony was done sitting on his ass. He was going to find Steve and Barnes.

.

.

When Bucky woke up, he couldn't move his arms or legs.

His head ached. A pulsing beat was pounding against his skull and the back of his eyes to the tempo of his heart. His bones felt cracked and brittle, like they might shatter at any moment. It was an unwelcome, but familiar feeling.

He shifted as much as he was able to, pushing away the discomfort of throbbing head.

His ears were muffled, but he could hear Steve's voice getting steadily louder until his hearing rushed back all at once.

"—you son of a bitch," Steve snarled. "Let me out of these cuffs and I'll show you just how capable I am."

Bucky blinked his eyes open and squinted up at the bright, artificial lights that hung above him.

It wasn't hard to guess where he was or what was going to happen next; Karpov was only waiting for him to wake up before he crept inside Bucky's brain and took his torn memories once again.

Bucky set his lips grimly, wondering which ones they would steal first, and how long it would be before he was their Soldier again, firmly under their thumb.

"Steve?" he rasped, mouth dry. He forced himself to focus on his surroundings and face the horror HYDRA had prepared for him. He vaguely realized that while his arms and legs were strapped down, the collar around his neck was gone; it was only a small comfort now that he was sitting in the chair.

Steve was in the corner of the room, straining against the chains holding him to the wall. They were thick and strong; they had been strong enough to hold Bucky for these past few days while Steve sat in the chair, and Bucky knew that Steve wouldn't be getting out of them anytime soon.

Steve's face morphed from fury to worry and ill-concealed fear when he turned his eyes to Bucky.

"Buck? Are you okay?" The question was a familiar one, and Bucky arched an eyebrow. He didn't bother saying that he was probably sporting a mild concussion and that his body felt like it had been turned inside out because it wouldn't matter soon enough.

"Ah, Soldat." Karpov moved into Bucky's line of sight, blocking Steve from view.

Even in his groggy state, Bucky managed to conjure up a dark glare to throw in Karpov's direction.

Karpov's lips quirked. "Defiance. I haven't seen that in you in years."

Bucky ignored that. "What the hell was that back there?" It seemed foolish to demand answers when he was strapped to the thing of his nightmares, but to his surprise, Karpov seemed willing to talk.

Karpov leaned a hand against the bulk of the chair, throwing a look over his shoulder to where Steve had fallen silent, watching them with hooded eyes.

"I have seen the connection between the Captain and you. It would take a blind man to miss it."

Bucky wanted to deny it, but his eyes slid to Steve in the corner, just over Karpov's shoulder, and he knew that he couldn't.

What they were going through (together) had forced him to accept that, even without his memories, and even with what he had become, Steve wasn't going to abandon him. Steve hadn't given up on him during the war, and he hadn't stopped looking for him after D.C. no matter how much Bucky had wished that he would.

He couldn't ignore that he and Steve were more than just two people who used to know each other. They were friends. No—more than that—they were brothers.

Bucky tore his mind away from that particular thought, chest constricting at the idea that Karpov could see all of it in his eyes. He looked back to Karpov and wondered what he was going to do with this knowledge. Would he twist Steve and Bucky until they no longer recognized each other? Would he turn them against each other?

"So?" Bucky snapped, shifting against the straps holding his arms and legs down. They held him firmly.

"So, I wanted to see how far that connection would stretch," Karpov said. "I wanted to know if one of you would leave the other in hopes of reaching freedom." His lips pulled back into a warped version of a smile. "And now I truly know how far you will go to save each other."

He knew that they weren't going to leave each other. Not again.

What would Karpov do with that information? Bucky didn't want to know, but Karpov was going to make him find out.

"First, we must make you more compliant," Karpov said, straightening. He was suddenly brisk, and for a heart-stopping moment, Bucky thought he was going to pull the red book out from his jacket and say the words, but Karpov didn't. He stepped away from the chair, and waved a hand in a 'go ahead' motion.

It was time. They were going to turn the chair on.

Fear bubbled to the surface of Bucky's mind, clouding over everything else. His arms strained against the metal straps as he attempted to break out of them, but he knew it was useless; the chair had been designed specifically for him.

His breath tore out of his mouth in rapid gasps, and he knew that his eyes were wild with his fear.

Under his panic, he wondered why Karpov _wouldn't_ just use the words to make him comply. Why all the drama of locking him and Steve together in a room when they weren't being tortured? Why bother letting him keep control of his mind for so long?

The answer came easily. Kaprov wanted to see his suffering up close. He wanted to see exactly how Bucky would react to Steve's pain, and how Bucky would take the beatings that still bruised his skin.

He wanted to know what it was like when Bucky wasn't the Winter Soldier.

The sick bastard liked the suffering. In fact, he encouraged it, to see just how much physical and mental torture they could take before they snapped.

It occurred to Bucky that maybe Karpov was the reason higher up HYDRA officials hadn't shown up yet, but he didn't dwell on it because the rage that was always burning inside him, had begun to mix into his panic, finally giving him a chance to tamp down on it.

Kaprov was out of his immediate view, probably over by the control desk, so Bucky could easily lock eyes with Steve, who was heaving against the chains, pale wrists bloody with the effort.

"Steve," Bucky said.

Steve's bowed head jerked up and his wild eyes caught Bucky's.

"They're going to take some of my memories now." Bucky's voice was surprisingly calm, but he didn't know how long that would last so he continued quickly. "It's okay. They can't take all of them yet, but I don't know how far back they'll go. It might be only a few weeks or maybe it'll be a couple of years."

"That's not comforting, Bucky," Steve said with a low growl. His muscles were straining under his dirty grey shirt as he continued to pull at the manacles, but the chains only rattled in response, and Bucky knew that there wasn't going to be a last minute save from Steve. There wasn't a way out of this.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "It's okay." He didn't know what else to say and it wasn't enough, but it was all he had.

Hands grabbed his jaw, forcing his eyes away from Steve and his mouth open to shove in a rubber mouth guard over his teeth.

The fingers let go as he gagged and pressed his tongue against the rubber, but he didn't try to spit it out; he knew it was better for it to stay in his mouth so he wouldn't bite off his tongue. He swallowed convulsively, feeling like he was going to throw up.

The chair began to whir to life underneath him, and Bucky's hands clenched, fingernails biting into the meat of his palm. His metal hand shrieked in protest as his fingers dug into the silver palm, and the panels on his arm shifted as he tensed.

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, preferring to just block everything out until it was over.

The noise of the chair rose over the yells that were starting to come from Steve again until all Bucky could hear was the grinding of the machine.

He tried to prepare for the agony to start as the panels around his head heated up. He didn't know how it worked exactly, but he did know that extracting his memories wasn't a painless process.

So he steeled himself, teeth biting into the rubber in his mouth as he waited...and kept waiting.

Nothing was happening.

The chair was on; he could feel it vibrating under his skin and he could feel the warmth coming from the panels around his head, but that was all. There was none of the burning agony that turned him inside out and melted his bones. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

Bucky's eyes flew open and he jerked his head around to look at where Karpov was standing at the controls with two doctors in white lab coats. He knew that the desk had screens that were connected to the chair and his body; they would be able to see his heart rate and could control how much or little pain he felt through the chair as well as how many memories they took.

He thought they would be shouting and furious at the lack of response from the chair, but they looked normal. Their eyes were flicking up from the buttons and screens at their fingertips to him, waiting for a reaction.

It was then that Bucky remembered what he had told Steve on their first day: This base was old. This _chair_ was old.

Maybe it was broken.

His heart started to beat faster against his ribs, a good thing because he knew that Karpov could see his heartrate at the controls.

His eyes stayed fixed on Karpov for a moment longer before flicking to the ceiling. If they wanted a reaction, he would give them a fucking reaction.

Decades of torture made it easy. All he had to do was think of—

 _Pools of blood._

 _Torn skin._

 _Cracked bones._

 _Dead bodies._

 _Steve's face as Bucky fell._

 _HYDRA with their fingers in his mind._

Image after image flickered behind his eyes, reminding him just how much had been taken from him and just how much he had suffered.

A scream was building in his chest. He could feel it as it forced its way up his throat, choking him. He retched, struggling against the straps of the chair, and then a moment later he let it out.

Even behind the rubber in his mouth, the scream was loud and long and agonized.

Before, when he had woken up for what seemed like the first time in years in Fury's cage, he hadn't let himself think about what had happened to him, or at least he didn't think about it for long, but now, he was taking all that trauma, twisting it tightly together and letting it all out in a seemingly endless scream.

Without even meaning to, Bucky's body jerked against the restraints, and he knew that this was more than just an act to sell the idea to Karpov that he was losing his mind. The trauma was very real, and Bucky wasn't denying it anymore. It scared him just how _much_ he was feeling, and he vaguely thought that if they ever got out of this, he was going to be way too fucked up to live a normal life ever again.

"That's enough." Karpov's voice somehow pierced through the noise, and a moment later, the chair stopped, but Bucky wasn't done.

He had too much left inside him that was now demanding to be let out.

"Someone shut him up," a new voice commanded, and suddenly there was a soldier standing in front of him. He eyed Bucky with distaste and then slapped him soundly with the palm of his hand.

Bucky's head jerked to the side, but it did the trick and the rest of the scream withered and died in his mouth.

He was trembling and heaving for breath as he spat the mouth guard to the floor. He straighten against the chair, trying to stop the leftover emotions from overwhelming him. He needed to focus on the here and now or he was going to lose his advantage.

His eyes roved around the room until they landed on Steve.

Steve was openly crying, tears streaming down his cheeks in grimy streaks. Bucky couldn't imagine what Steve was thinking, and he felt a flare of guilt for causing this, especially because it wasn't even real, but he didn't know how much emotion he could show; he didn't want to let Karpov know that it hadn't worked, so he pulled his eyes away from Steve.

He blinked against tears of his own that were pressing against his eyes, and let out a shaky breath, but then Karpov was standing in front of him again, excitement dancing in his eyes. Bucky pushed away the tears, blinking rapidly at Karpov.

"Soldat?" he said in a near whisper.

Bucky didn't say anything, lips pressing tightly together.

"Tell me—do you know me?" Karpov continued, tapping a hand against his chest.

Fuck. What was the expected answer? Bucky didn't know how many weeks or months they had taken from him. It always varied, and he had no way of knowing.

Hesitantly, he shook his head.

"Good!" Karpov crowed, clapping his hands together.

Apparently, acting like a void version of himself was enough to satisfy Karpov, but Bucky knew that it was more than that. Karpov was too enthralled with his own intellect and success to really stop and think that something might be wrong.

"Undo his restraints," Karpov called out and a second later, the locks gave way.

For a moment, Bucky stared at his newly freed limbs and then looked to Karpov, who gave him an encouraging nod. The fool didn't know what he was unleashing. Bucky swallowed a smirk and then sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the chair. He stood up, towering over Karpov, who showed no fear at the proximity.

"You bastard!" Steve shouted in a thick voice. "You absolute bastard!"

Karpov turned, giving Steve a thoughtful look. His head turned as he looked from Steve to Bucky.

"Soldat..." He cocked his head to the side, "beat that man. Don't stop until he's bleeding and broken."

Bucky frowned; what kind of order was that? It seemed that Karpov was possessed with stupidity that came hand in hand with dramatics. Did he really not care that the thoughtless order he had just given would undoubtedly kill one of his precious super soldiers? Unbidden the thought that Bucky was his favorite and the only one he cared about rose in his mind, and Bucky's mouth almost twisted in disgust.

Steve yelled something unintelligible as Karpov stepped to the side, giving Bucky a clear view of Steve.

"Go on," Karpov said with a nod and smile. "Make him bleed."

Bucky took a step forward, wondering how long he should keep this charade up; he didn't want to fight Steve, but he was quickly losing his chance at an escape.

Steve held up his cuffed hands, shaking his head at Bucky. The tears had dried quickly with the severity of the situation. It wasn't lost on Steve that Karpov might have gone crazy and was willing to sacrifice one of his super soldiers for his own entertainment.

"C'mon, Buck," Steve said, speaking as if it was just the two of them in the room, "don't do this. Not again."

Bucky stalked forward, hands curling into fists. He knew he looked terrifying when the few HYDRA soldiers in the room shed away from him, giving him space. It was altogether too easy to slip into the Winter Soldier's skin, but he pushed that thought aside.

He was only a few feet away from Steve now. Behind him, he could hear Karpov's eager gasps as he waited for his latest test to begin.

Steve's head was shaking back and forth, but he was shifting his stance, preparing himself for an attack. It would be a very one-sided beating; Steve wouldn't be able to do much with his hands cuffed and chained to the wall.

But then, the voice from before, the one that had wanted Bucky to shut up, spoke again in the silence of the room. "Wait a minute..." It was almost like he was speaking to himself. "This isn't right. He's forgotten too much, but that isn't possible."

No, it wasn't possible, and the doctors seemed to finally be catching up to the thin lie Bucky had been spinning, but he hadn't expected it to last long.

Steve heard the doctor's words and he frowned. He didn't quite understand them, but Bucky knew that Steve remembered how the chair worked. His eyes snapped up to inspect Bucky closer, raking up and down him.

Bucky stopped moving. His eyebrows rose and he almost offered Steve a shrug as if to say, _it's only me_. Steve's mouth fell open a little and his eyes widened.

"Bucky?" Steve murmured, tugging at the chains and he leaned forward.

"Karpov." It was the doctor again, urgency filling his voice. "Something is wrong."

Bucky was out of time and with a quirk of his lips at Steve, Bucky surged forward, sidestepping Steve and veering into one of the watching soldiers.

The man died quickly, and Bucky had the pistol from his belt in his metal hand before anyone in the room could blink. He twisted around to face the crowd of men, head cocking to the side as he eyed them.

The silence in the room was heavy as everyone stared at him in open surprise and fear, and for a heartbeat no said anything, until: " _Fuck_."

Bucky didn't know who said it, but that was enough to let him loose.

The Glock 19 fit perfectly in his hand, and he knew there was 15 rounds in this gun's magazine; more than enough to kill everyone in the room.

Three soldiers fell, bullets lodged in their heads, before anyone else even got their weapons out.

They fumbled, their fear thick in the air, and Bucky killed four more.

Someone finally managed to fire their gun and Bucky shifted, feeling a hot burn as a bullet grazed his side. He pushed the slight pain aside.

"Bucky!" Steve shouted in frustration; his hands were still cuffed and there wasn't much for him to do.

Eight bullets left.

Bucky ignored the screams that bounced off the walls of the room, focusing on killing each threat.

It wasn't hard, and he wondered if it was Karpov's arrogance at play that they only had 12 soldiers with them, but whatever it was, Bucky killed them all until only the two doctors and Karpov remained.

Bucky trained his pistol on them, a grin tugging at his lips. Karpov was pressed up against the wall near the door, face pale and sick, as he stared at Bucky in disbelief. The two doctors were swearing and shouting, poking at the control desk as if there was something they could do to save themselves.

He didn't feel like Bucky anymore. It was like a version of the Winter Soldier had taken over, and was relishing in the violence. His hand tightened around the pistol, glad to have a weapon in his hand again, glad to be in control again.

"Bucky," Steve said, appearing at his side. He was out as far as the chain length would allow him.

"Go find the key," Bucky said without looking at him. "Get those cuffs off. You're going to need both hands."

He didn't wait for Steve to reply or to argue that the key could be on any of the scattered bodies before he stalked forward, raising his pistol again.

The first doctor went down easy, but the second tried to run and Bucky had to waste two bullets on him.

He let out a low growl as he finally turned to face Karpov. He tossed the gun aside, letting it clatter against the cement floor; it was useless now.

"Soldat..." Karpov whispered. The knowledge that he was about to die shone out of his wide eyes.

Bucky stopped in front of him, eyes roaming over Karpov's trembling form. He waited for Karpov to do something, but the other man stayed frozen against the wall. There was no point in trying to yell out the words from the red book; there was no time. There was no point in trying to run; Bucky would only catch him. All of Karpov's hope was snuffed out, and soon he would be a cooling corpse on the floor with the others.

"Karpov," Bucky said, baring his teeth. Anger pounded against his skull, blocking out everything else.

"Please," Karpov tried, voice cracking. "You don't have to kill me."

Bucky didn't say anything; pleas for mercy did nothing against the mask of the Winter Soldier that had shifted into place over his raging emotions. He lifted up his hands to grab Karpov's head between them.

Karpov's skull felt so fragile under Bucky's hands, and for a moment, Bucky wondered if he could literally crush it with just his metal hand. Maybe he would find out now.

"You were my greatest achievement," Karpov said, finding his voice. It was stronger than it had been only moments before. He raised his chin, catching Bucky's eyes; the fear in them had disappeared. "Thank you, Soldat."

Rage pulsed through Bucky and his lips pulled back over his teeth as he began to press his hands together.

Karpov let out a scream as the pressure increased, but Bucky ignored it, teeth grinding together as he snarled lowly in the back of his throat.

 _This_ was the face of the man who had taken his entire life. HYDRA had been the force behind him, but it was _this_ man, who had continued the work Zola had started. Bucky couldn't stand the sight of him. He wanted to destroy him, smash his head into the wall, and crush his skull between his hands until only shattered bone remained.

There was a small part of him that was yelling to be heard, shouting that this wasn't the way, but he pushed it aside, focusing on Karpov and how he was going to die.

Abruptly, something knocked into him, ripping his hands off Karpov's head and shoving him to the floor.

Bucky rolled twice and then sprang to his feet, head swiveling as he looked for the new threat. It took him a moment to realize that it was Steve who pulled him away, that he had stopped Bucky from killing Karpov.

Steve had a hand pinned to Karpov's chest, but his focus was on Bucky.

"What the fuck, Steve," Bucky snapped, feeling his muscles tighten as he prepared to jump forward again. He glared at Steve, back hunching and hands curling. "Let me kill him."

"No," Steve said. There was something flickering across his face. Fear maybe. "You can't kill him. Not like that."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Bucky snarled, heart pounding against his chest. Almost everything inside him was demanding that Karpov die. It demanded that Bucky be the one to kill him, not Steve or anyone else.

"It means that you looked like the monster they tried to turn you into," Steve yelled back, just as loudly. "Believe me, I want him dead too. But not like that."

Without waiting for Bucky to say anything, Steve swung Karpov off the wall, slamming the old man into the empty chair. Karpov's head smashed against the hard headrest and his eyes rolled as he fell into unconsciousness.

Steve let go of Karpov, grabbing his limp hands and encircling handcuffs onto them. He then dug through Karpov's coat until he emerged with the faded red book.

Bucky flinched at the sight of it, but he swallowed and moved forward until he was standing next to Steve. He didn't try to make a move towards Karpov; Steve would only stop him again.

He wanted to kick Steve's ass (he wanted to thank Steve).

"You should let me kill him," he said, eyes boring into Karpov. But it was almost too late for that now. His burning hate was beginning to fade, overcome by the horror of what he had almost done.

The Winter Soldier had come out to play, and Bucky had almost lost himself in the persona. The thought scared Bucky. He had been fighting so hard for the person that he had once been, but all it took was hate and anger to shove him back into the hollow man HYDRA had molded.

"You can't kill him," Steve said, bringing Bucky's attention back to him. "We need to go. We still need to get out of here." He paused, looking around the blood splattered room. "Get their weapons." He indicated the dead soldiers and shifted away from the chair, but Bucky didn't move. He was frozen, staring at the man who had helped form the Winter Soldier. Would this be the last time he saw Karpov or would Karpov find a way back to him? Even if he let the Winter Soldier take over again, Bucky thought it might be worth the risk to kill the problem Karpov presented once and for all.

"Bucky?"

Steve's hand reached out to grip Bucky's metal arm. Bucky shivered, despite not really feeling Steve's warmth through the metal plates. He twisted his neck around, catching Steve's eyes with his own. Steve was right. Karpov wouldn't be killed at his hands, and maybe that was stupid, but Bucky wasn't willing to give up on the man Steve thought he could be.

He wasn't sure if Steve could see all his frantic thoughts in his eyes, but Steve's mouth softened and he gave a slow nod. "It's okay, Buck." His fingers tightened around Bucky's arm. "We're going to make it through this. I promise."

Bucky didn't trust his voice. He nodded jerkily back and moved with Steve as they stepped away from the chair.

As they exited the room, Bucky threw one last look at Karpov. It was a mistake to let him live, but Bucky knew that Steve was doing more than just trying to save him from HYDRA. Steve wanted to save Bucky's soul too.

Or at least what was left of it.

.

.

Clint knew he was being followed.

He wasn't exactly making it difficult for them. He hadn't been bothering to cover his tracks and was leaving easy trails behind him, but then he hadn't been sure that anyone would be coming after him.

He knew Natasha would eventually show up, but Tony and Sam were a surprise.

He was pretty sure that he hated Tony right now and figured the feeling was mutual, and while he hadn't interacted with Sam very much, he also wanted to punch the guy in the face for what had happened in the basement.

But still, it didn't matter who had come after him because the fact remained that Clint wasn't hiding and if they had something they needed to say to him, then fine. Here he was.

It had taken him a few hours to hitch a ride from Fury's compound to the city of Helena, Montana.

For the last few days, Clint had been trying to figure out where the HYDRA base could be, especially when he considered the other bases that Fury and his people had found over the past few months, scattered throughout the States. Montana had been suspiciously absent, even though there was multiple bases in the surrounding states.

It would be an ideal place for a base too, especially if it was just used for research or for holding supplies and men. It definitely wouldn't be a main base of any kind, but that didn't matter because; Karpov and his HYDRA soldiers wouldn't have wanted to go far with two super soldiers in their custody. They had to know that transporting Steve and Bucky would be hard. The two vans that Clint knew they had used to attack the compound wouldn't be enough to hold both Steve and Bucky for long.

He tried not to think about the fact that it would have been simple for HYDRA to knock the two super soldiers out and then easily transport them anywhere.

While that was a good possibility, his gut was telling him that the base was close, likely near Helena.

The problem was that now he was actually here, he didn't know where to look. It could be anywhere. Maybe somewhere in the city. Or hidden out among the forests and mountains that surrounded Helena.

Clint felt woefully inadequate. He was just one guy, a soldier—a skilled sniper—but really just a grunt in the cogs of Fury's SHIELD. He wasn't clever like Natasha or a damn genius like Tony, and not for the first time, Clint wished that he had been working with both of them from the very beginning. He wished that everything in the basement hadn't happened, and that he had an actual team with him that he could rely on.

But, if the shadows that he could feel behind him were who he thought, maybe he would have at least one of those things. A competent team, anyway.

A hand appeared on Clint's elbow and Natasha materialized at his side.

"You know, if you were trying to hide, I would suggest not wearing a purple sweatshirt. It stands out." Her lips quirked into a glimmer of a smile.

Clint eyed her and then shrugged. "I wasn't hiding."

Natasha nodded; she knew that.

"Where's the other two?" Clint asked as they kept walking down the sidewalk.

"Behind us," Natasha said, waving her hand vaguely over her shoulder. "Tony was scared that you were going to punch him, so he sent me ahead. I told him that you would only punch me instead." Her eyes shuttered slightly as she cocked her head to the side, red strands of her hair falling into her face. It seemed like she was waiting for him to do just that, and Clint felt his stomach clench.

He stopped walking, pulling her to the side under an awning of a tourist shop.

Her eyes widened faintly and he could see her fingers curling, as if she was already forming fists to defend herself.

"I'm not going to hit you," Clint said bluntly. He didn't let go of her arm. "You're the only one that I trust—"

"I betrayed that trust," Natasha interrupted, her eyes flashing.

"Yeah, you did," Clint said. He pinned her with his eyes, holding her in place. "But we're not going to get Steve and Bucky back without working together. Fury was right about that much."

She blinked once and then carefully extracted her arm from his grasp. "So this is simply a work relationship."

Her tone was casual, as if she couldn't care less, but Clint had known her long enough to tell that she was hurt and trying to hide it.

Clint rolled his eyes. "Don't be stupid. I was furious at you, but you're my family, Nat. One of the only ones that I have left, and I'm not going to push you away over this." Even as he spoke, Clint could feel the truth of his statement easing the anger that he still clung to. He didn't want to be angry at her; not anymore. "Just...don't do that again, okay?"

The mask that Natasha always wore slipped slightly and Clint could see the relief that his words brought washing over her. He knew that she was letting him see it, that she wanted him to know how much he meant to her too.

"Dammit, woman," Clint said, reaching forward and pulling her into a hug, "you've got me wrapped around your little finger."

Natasha's face was buried in his shoulder, but he felt her laugh vibrate through him.

They clung to each other, desperation and guilt and forgiveness flowing between them. They needed to assure each other that they would always be family, no matter what happened, and sometimes, actions like this were better than words.

Besides, Clint wasn't always great with putting his feelings into words.

"Does this mean I get a hug too?" Tony's voice sounded and Clint made a face over Natasha's shoulder.

It was easy to forgive Natasha; they had established a long time ago that they were all they had. Her betrayal stung and it would continue to hurt, but their relationship was too strong to shatter completely over this.

As far as Clint was concerned, Tony had none of those things going for him, and his anger rose again.

Clint and Natasha broke away from each other, and Clint turned to face Tony and Sam, who were both wearing casual streetwear, trying not to look conspicuous among all the tourists and locals.

Sam looked wary, keeping his distance, but Tony was striding forward, a shit-eating grin on his face, as if all was forgotten and forgiven.

"Embrace me!" he said, sticking out his arms to either side of him.

Clint didn't stop to think; he stepped forward, raised his curled fist and punched Tony in the face.

His knuckles immediately screamed in protest as they met Tony's jaw, and Clint knew bruises would already be forming on his skin, but he didn't care. It felt too damn good.

"Ow! What the fuck, Barton!" Tony swore, staggering backwards, hand jerking up to press against his face. "I thought we were okay now. I thought that was what all the hugging was about!"

Clint shrugged. "I'm cool with Nat, and now you and I are good." He wasn't sure if that was true, but he also knew that he needed Tony's help if they wanted to find their missing friends. He continued with a flippant tone. "Besides, if there's one thing my pops taught me, it's that my fists will always solve a problem. What do you think, Tony, is the problem between us solved?" He ducked his head to catch Tony's eyes, offering him a shark-like grin.

Tony straightened, trying to maintain a glare, but he must have thought the punch was well deserved and it faded away a second later.

"Tell Mr. Barton that his advice is solid. Problem solved," he said, hand still pressing to his red cheek. "Just give me a warning next time."

"Where's the fun in that?" Clint asked. "Surprise attacks are the best kind."

Tony opened his mouth to argue, but Clint cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"Enough fun. We need to find the HYDRA base. We've spent too much time wallowing—"

"Fun?" Sam wondered vaguely from where he stood a safe distance away, while Tony muttered, "Who's wallowing?"

Clint ignored both of them. "I think there's a base here in Helena. Or nearby, but I don't know how to find it."

"How do you know...?" Sam shook his head, not bothering to finish the question, which was good, because while it all made perfect sense to Clint, his roundabout way of coming to this conclusion might not make sense to anyone else, but he knew he was right.

He could feel it.

Steve and Bucky were close, and all that needed to be done now was to actually find them.

.

.

A/N: Look at that. Only took me a week to get this out! I enjoyed this chapter, but it was also unexpected, and some of what I wrote wasn't exactly planned. But whatever.

Anyway. I feel like some of you might be annoyed with me for not letting Bucky kill Karpov, and trust me, he was going to die, but like I said above, once I started writing, it kinda turned out that Bucky was going Full Winter Soldier on him and was going to kill him pretty horrifically (I was definitely thinking of The Mountain killing Oberyn in Game of Thrones) and I just couldn't let that happen.  
I know that realistically Steve (and Bucky) could both be super brutal because of what they probably did during the war, and I've read some fics where they both make choices to kill people because it's the smart move but maybe not the most merciful. I wanted our heroes to be better people than that. Sure, it might be stupid, especially in this case (because Karpov could come back), but I honestly believe that Steve is right, if Bucky had killed Karpov, he would have lost a part of himself to the Winter Soldier forever. Because he wasn't just killing someone (he's done plenty of that), he was killing someone _as_ Bucky, and out of a thirst for revenge.

I don't know if any of that makes sense (it does in my head), but there you go. Also, I do realize that this whole Karpov thing is my fault because I wrote myself into a corner. I could have easily made it a simple matter for Bucky to decide to kill Karpov in a way that would have been quick, but instead I wrote this and now I'm trying to write myself out of it. The good news is that it gave me a lot of emotional conflict to work with.

Maybe none of you have a problem with how I handled the Karpov thing, but clearly I wanted to explain myself anyway. Sometimes I just ramble and this note is probably much longer than it needs to be, so kudos to you if you're reading the whole thing!

Thank you for reading/following/favoriting/reviewing!


	19. Chapter 19

[19]

The base was burning.

The bombs that Bucky had set throughout the halls as they made their escape were going off, rocking both of them as they crawled their way out of the hidden HYDRA base into the setting sunlight.

Behind them, the base was collapsing. Screams and yells of trapped and dying HYDRA soldiers echoed deep in the halls.

There hadn't been many soldiers when Steve and Bucky had fought their way out of the room with the chair, but the numbers increased the further they got to the top of the three leveled base, and Steve knew that it wouldn't be long before reinforcements showed up and tried to reclaim them for HYDRA.

But even knowing that, Bucky and Steve weren't moving yet. They were breathing heavily from their hurried escape through the halls and up the stairs. Steve knew they needed to pull themselves and get moving, but the cool air felt good against Steve's skin, and he took a brief moment to rub a hand down his face.

He grimaced, feeling dried blood and smoke clinging to him; it was a reminder of what they had just endured down in the dark room, and for moment, Steve wanted to tear the skin off his bones and try to start anew.

His mouth twisted and he carefully rubbed his hands together as if he could wash the blood and trauma off them.

"They're coming," Bucky said suddenly, voice hoarse.

Steve's eyes slid to his friend, who was staring at the hole in the rock face. The entrance to the HYDRA base looked like a normal cave opening. It was so natural looking that Steve didn't think SHIELD or anyone else would have ever found it on their own. He and Bucky would have been stuck down there forever if they hadn't clawed their way free. He shivered at the thought.

"We need to go," Bucky continued, and suddenly he was standing in front of Steve, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him away from the entrance. "Everyone down there might be dead, but you know that they must have called for reinforcements. It's only a matter of time before they come for us."

Steve blinked and jerked out of his stupor. He nodded, gaze sharpening as he swiveled around to finally look at their surroundings.

The HYDRA base was built into what looked like a small mountain. It was surrounded by thick trees, making it impossible to know just how deep into the forest they were.

There was no trail that Steve could see, and he wondered what HYDRA did to get their trucks through the forest and into the base. Maybe there was a second exit that was more spacious and allowed the trucks to easily pass through. That wasn't a comforting idea; it gave Karpov and the surviving soldiers another way out.

A second blast shook beneath their feet and Bucky's hand was back on Steve's arm, tightening into an almost bruising force.

"Steve," Bucky said, eyes dark, "let's move."

Steve didn't respond, but they both turned on their heels and set off in a jog. Their boots skidded on the loose rocks and dirt as they went down a small incline and then into the cool shade of the forest.

Immediately Steve felt like he was being smothered by the imposing trees, but there was no other escape route, so going through the woods was their only option. Steve eyed his surroundings with distaste, trying to shake the feeling of suffocation.

"The trees are good," Bucky grunted after they had jogged in silence for a while. "They'll help conceal us."

"I don't like them." It slipped out before Steve could stop it. His cheeks colored slightly, and he could feel Bucky's surprised eyes on him, but he kept his gaze forward, focusing on where they were going so that he wouldn't trip over a root or something similar.

Bucky let out a sudden laugh. The sound was muffled in the enclosed forest, giving Steve just another reason to feel like he was being choked.

"Still don't like nature, huh?" Bucky said.

Steve's eyebrows rose and he threw a surprised look at Bucky. "You remember that?"

Bucky shrugged. "Hard to forget."

The irony of that statement wasn't lost on either of them.

"No," Steve said, lips curling as he slapped at a mosquito buzzing near his ear. "It never seemed to like me much either."

He didn't say that he had had his fill of tramping through unknown forests during the war; he wasn't sure Bucky would remember much about that time. And anyway, Steve didn't want to think about a past where hidden enemies where hiding behind shadows and trees; it felt too similar to the situation they were in now.

"Where are we?" Steve asked after another beat, pushing aside the light humor of moments before.

He glanced at Bucky when he didn't get an answer right away.

Bucky's face had taken on a blank and emotionless look, as if he was remembering something that he didn't like. His skin was smeared with smoke and splatters of blood, just like Steve's, but for a moment, Steve only saw the Winter Soldier in his face.

But then Bucky shook his head and he looked like himself again.

Not the old Bucky from Brooklyn, but the new 21st century Bucky that Steve had finally been getting to know.

"Sorry," Bucky said with a careful look at Steve. The apology was unnecessary, but it was as if he knew that he hadn't looked like himself and didn't want Steve to worry. He didn't give Steve a chance to ask him about it as he continued, "We're probably not far from Wyoming. Maybe Montana or Colorado. I don't think they drove us far from Fury's compound."

Steve's stomach twisted; there was no way to know for sure if that was true. HYDRA could have had them knocked out for days before allowing them to wake up in the dark cells; they could have been transported to Germany for all they knew.

Another thought occurred to Steve. "Did they ever put trackers in you?"

"I don't know," Bucky answered shortly, not looking at Steve.

It wasn't comforting, and frankly, they wouldn't be able to check until they managed to get back to SHIELD, but if they were chipped, then it was going to make escaping a lot harder.

They fell into an uneasy silence, focusing on putting one boot in front of the other; the thick underbrush hid roots and rocks that made running dangerous, and Steve didn't want to go headfirst into the ground. A concussion was the last thing they needed.

For a while, all Steve focused on was the pounding of his feet against the uneven ground and the slight huff of breath that came out of his mouth. His breathing was even and controlled, which had been unthinkable when he was just a kid with asthma back in Brooklyn. Some days, Steve couldn't believe that he wasn't that same kid anymore, but he was thankful every day for the miracle the serum and Doctor Erskine had given him.

The air was turning cold with night fast approaching, and there was a niggling worry in the back of Steve's head wondering what they were going to do if they didn't make it back to civilization soon; food and water were one thing—he was sure that he and Bucky would be able to go longer than the average person without both—but the elements and the wildlife that were sure to be lurking concerned him.

With his mind firmly flashing images of bears bursting out of the shadows, Steve wasn't prepared for the silence to be abruptly broken.

"Get down!" Bucky's voice was loud and unexpected, sending Steve's senses skyrocketing and his head whipping around, but Bucky was already dropping to his stomach. His metal hand snapped out, grabbing Steve's arm and dragging him down too.

They fell to the hard packed earth, chins bouncing against the dirt, clacking their teeth together. The underbrush and foliage brushed against them and covered their bodies, but not well enough to hide them for long.

Breathing shallowly, Steve shivered against Bucky's cold metal hand that was still gripping his bare arm tightly. He shifted, but Bucky didn't release him.

For a moment, Steve didn't know why they were pressing their bodies against the ground, but then he heard it: A low buzzing, getting closer by the second. He internally berated himself for not hearing it sooner; he knew he still had better ears than Bucky, but he also knew they were still echoing with Bucky's gut-wrenching screams from when he was in the chair. It was going to take him longer than a few hours to stop hearing that particular sound; it had shaken him to his core and when they made it out of the forest, he was going to have to find a way to deal with it.

But he was a soldier, first and foremost. He needed to pull it together and focus on surviving the night.

"It's a drone. Probably sent to scout the area," Bucky said softly from next to Steve. " _Fuck_ —they got here quicker than they should have."

"Maybe they aren't as dead as we thought," Steve said. "But they could have called for help before the base collapsed."

"Maybe Karpov got free," Bucky added.

Steve's eyebrows snapped down into a frown and he jerked his head around to look at Bucky in the fading light, but the other man's face was carefully blank.

"Bucky..." Steve started, the name heavy in his mouth, but Bucky didn't give him a chance to continue. He abruptly sprang to his feet, and spinning on his heel, he hurled a fist-sized rock at the black machine that was hovering several feet behind them.

The rock hit the thing dead center and with a low pitched whine, it sputtered and crashed to the ground in a smoking heap.

Steve was on his feet moments later, following closely behind Bucky as he trotted towards the drone to make sure it was actually dead.

It was flopping around in small circles kicking up dirt and pebbles. Smoke was hissing out of it and it didn't look like it was going to be making a return flight anytime soon.

"Any weapons on it?" Steve asked as Bucky dropped into a low crouch, metal hand hesitantly reaching forward. It was possible that HYDRA had decided to cut their losses and kill both of them, rather than drag them back.

"No weapons," Bucky said, head cocking to the side as he squinted down at the drone. "But they've got a camera on us."

Steve frowned and leaned down, peering at the black machine. It wasn't hard to spot the blinking red light that was staring back up at them.

"Bastards," Bucky growled and then gave the red light his middle finger. He rose, straightening, and then smashed his boot down onto the drone.

It crunched under his heel, and Steve knew it was definitely dead now.

They were silent as they stared at the broken reminder that HYDRA was still coming.

Steve's heart beat roughly against his ribs; this was never going to end. Not unless they ended it.

Without meaning to, Steve's thoughts turned back to the smothering ruins of the base and what they had left inside. It occurred to him that it was possible that Karpov might not have been working with any real backing from HYDRA. After all, he had brought Steve and Bucky to a base in Montana and not in Europe somewhere. It begged the question of _why_ he stayed in the States, making it easier for an escape or rescue.

Karpov also didn't wipe Bucky right away. Instead, he spent his time watching them suffer together with a sick sort of fascination. Steve couldn't imagine what his motivation had been because it certainly didn't seem like he really wanted to force Bucky back into the Winter Soldier. It was almost like he wanted to create something new with the both of them.

Steve pulled his mind away from that, shuddering to think exactly what would have waited them if they hadn't managed to escape the base.

The destruction Bucky had left behind was significant, and it would have been difficult for Karpov to escape the room with the chair, especially with his hands cuffed together.

But there was no way to tell for sure.

If he was dead, Steve wasn't going to lose sleep over it; he _wanted_ the man dead, but he had known that Bucky couldn't be the one to do it. Karpov had already taken so much from him, and Steve wasn't going to let him take Bucky's soul too.

Maybe it was dramatic, but Steve had seen the look on Bucky's face when he had killed everyone in the room. Jagged shapes of the Winter Soldier had been starting to slip over his skin, making Bucky brutal and efficient as he killed.

Steve had never wanted to see that person again—he never wanted Bucky to have to _be_ that person again, but he knew it wasn't as simple as that.

The Winter Soldier would always be part of Bucky.

And fucking Karpov was one of the people who had done that to Bucky. He had taken what Zola had started and continued the work.

Steve's fingers twitched against his leg, and he suddenly wished that he had just killed Karpov. Without knowing if the man had actually died in the base was going to haunt him for the rest of his days. There would always be that feeling that Karpov might appear once again, ready to drag Bucky, kicking and screaming, back into the mold of the Winter Soldier.

"We should go back," Steve muttered, looking up from the drone to where Bucky was standing.

"What?" Bucky said, eyebrows pulling low in confusion.

"We should go back," Steve repeated slowly, "and kill Karpov."

For a long beat, Bucky didn't say anything as he stared blankly at Steve, but then his frown deepened and he said, " _Now_ you want to kill him?"

"No, I always wanted to kill him," Steve said, with a quick shake of his head. "I just didn't want _you_ to do it."

"Because you're supposedly saving my soul," Bucky said. "I think you might be too late for that." He didn't wait for Steve to protest before adding with a jerk of his chin, "But you're completely fine with selling yours?"

Steve blinked, surprised at the anger laced in Bucky's voice. He turned to fully face his friend, ignoring the fact that they weren't out of danger and this wasn't the time for this conversation.

Bucky's shoulders and neck were corded tightly and his lips were tight and bloodless. It looked like every single part of him was holding itself back from lashing out at Steve in frustrated anger.

"I've killed plenty of people," Steve said, feeling vaguely annoyed that Bucky didn't seem to understand that he wasn't the only one with blood on his hands. "I'm not—"

"Sure, during war," Bucky interrupted. "That was different. You were right to stop me back at the base. If I had gone through with killing Karpov, I would never have been free of him. If I killed him like...like the Winter Soldier, I would've become what he had made me."

"Yes, but," Steve tried again, but Bucky held up his metal hand, halting the words in his mouth.

"Shut up, Steve," Bucky snapped. "You're so damn stubborn." He closed his eyes briefly and then taking a breath said, "I'm not going to let you save me only for you to lose yourself."

With a final hard look at Steve, Bucky turned away from him and started stalking off.

Steve's eyes followed Bucky's retreating back and for the first time in a long time, he felt a prickle of something other than relief that he had his friend back. It took a second to place the emotion as annoyance, and when he did the feeling gripped him tight and hurled him back into his past, before the war and before the serum. It took him to a time when Steve couldn't breathe because of his asthma, and Bucky wouldn't let him do anything other than sit absolutely still while he forced him to drink warm water or milk, when they had it, to help soothe his aching throat.

Despite his protests that the attack had passed, Bucky would pin him in place with his whole body, if necessary, telling Steve that he knew what he was doing and that Steve needed to fall in line.

The annoyance gave way to fondness, and Steve felt his lips twitch; Bucky had always been dramatic about Steve's health, and he supposed it made some sort of sense that Bucky would transfer that concern from the physical to the mental. He probably didn't even know that he was doing it.

"Are you coming, Steve?" Bucky called out from somewhere in the gloom; the trees had quickly swallowed him, making it hard to see him clearly.

"You're such an ass," Steve called back and then set off after him.

"Takes one to know one."

.

.

Tony's teeth worried his bottom lip as he stared at Clint.

Clint was standing at their hotel window, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, as he stared out at the setting sun. It was almost all the way behind the mountains surrounding Helena, and despite the minutes ticking by, they still hadn't made any progress finding the base that Clint insisted was here.

Tony wasn't sure what to believe. He wanted the HYDRA base to be nearby, but it was almost too good to be true. What kind of operation was HYDRA running if they brought their prized super soldiers to a base that was so close to a known SHIELD compound? It just didn't make sense to Tony.

Clint's shoulders tightened under Tony's gaze. He had to be on edge; his hands were clenching and unclenching at his sides, knuckles on his left hand starting to darken into a bruise from where they had hit Tony's jaw.

With a grimace, Tony reached up a hand to brush against the tender skin. He didn't know if Clint's forgiveness had been genuine, and was still expecting Clint to punch him again. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility; the birdman seemed like he held onto the grudges and preferred sneak attacks.

Several different precautions ran through Tony's head, booby traps included, but then he remembered _why_ Clint was so pissed. A small part of him protested that Clint needed to get over it; they were all working towards the same goal now, but he also knew that it was hard to let go of grudges.

But it was likely that it was more than just a grudge that Clint was holding onto. It didn't take a genius—which he was—to figure out that despite being a spy for SHIELD where his life revolved around missions, Clint was lonely and scared of losing the family he had managed to find, which inexplicably included Barnes.

Tony knew what it was like. He had lost his family too—he roughly cut that train of thought off right at its neck, letting it bleed out on the floor of his mind.

Thinking about his parents being taken too soon by the very assassin he was trying to help rescue wasn't going to help speed up the process of finding Steve and Barnes.

He dug his fingers into his thigh, letting the sharp pain ground him. He cleared his throat loudly, pointedly looking at Clint.

Clint startled minutely and then immediately relaxed as he turned from the window to scan the rest of the hotel room.

Several pairs of eyes looked back at him expectantly, but Clint only focused on Tony, eyes narrowing.

"Did you—," he started to say, but Tony cut him off with a sharp shake of his head.

"Find them? No." He jerked his chin at the open laptop in front of him. "It's not that easy. I don't have anything to go on other than your gut, which, don't get me wrong, is lovely, but isn't helping me."

"I thought you were a genius," Clint said, crossing his arms over his chest and widening his stance. He looked like he was preparing for a fight.

"I am. But you can't you bait me into finding them any faster without any new information," Tony said, surprised that he _wasn't_ being baited; that type of talk usually worked. His ego demanded it.

"Then what good are you?" Clint said evenly.

Tony's eyes widened and for a moment he wasn't sure that Clint had even insulted him; the other man had spoken so calmly and matter-of-factly that it hardly registered.

But it still made it through Tony's skull and his mouth twisted. "I'm funding this rescue operation, Barton, but please if you want to go back to sleeping on the park bench be my guest." Tony's jaw clicked; Clint was starting to piss him off.

"You're not the only person with money," Clint said, shrugging as if he could go outside and pluck the necessary money out of thin air.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize that working at a circus paid well." He paused briefly. "Probably not very well since you skipped out on it and decided to go into a life of crime." Tony swallowed the rest of his words, knowing that he might have just crossed a line, but how could anyone blame him for searching up Barton's past after what had happened in the basement when he had realized that he really didn't know anything about Clint. Natasha's SHIELD info dump had made it easy, and had given Tony more insight into Clint than he had ever really wanted to know.

Clint's face shuttered and dropped his arms back down to his sides, hands clenched into fists.

Tension in the room skyrocketed, and Tony felt more than saw Natasha shift in the corner of the room. It was possible that he was about to die.

Tony swallowed; he hadn't meant to be an asshole, but it just came naturally, especially when someone was pissing him off.

Clint was silent, but he kept his dark eyes on Tony, and for the first time, Tony realized that he probably should have developed a healthy fear of Clint, and not just worry about Natasha killing him in his sleep.

But his fear was quickly chased away by guilt; a familiar emotion at this point. If he didn't swallow his pride, he was going to lose every friend he had managed to make since the meeting the rest of the Avengers.

"I'm sorry," Tony said, the words forcing themselves out of his mouth in a rush. "I didn't mean—"

"To remind me of my traumatic past?" Clint cut in. He waved a hand as if dismissing it. "It's okay." From the blank look on his face, it was anything but. "Let's focus. What do you need to find them other than my lovely gut feeling?"

Tony held Clint eyes, trying to find sincerity in them. He wondered if another sneak attack was in his future, but the SHIELD spy held no sign of it on his face. Probably because there really was more important things to deal with than punching Tony again.

Tony shifted at the hotel table, pulling the laptop closer. He let out a frustrated huff of air; he didn't _know_ what he needed. HYDRA had ghosted the two super soldiers away quickly and silently before Tony had had a chance to breathe and find his footing again. They were so thoroughly gone that the only way Tony could think of finding them was through their trackers.

Tony paused, mid-thought. How could he have been so stupid? It was common knowledge that he was a genius and yet he hadn't even thought about finding them through the trackers that Fury had put on them. He ignored Clint's heavy stare and the hushed looks from Natasha and Sam. The silence was thick as they waited for Tony to speak, seemingly realizing that he was on the brink of a discovery.

He obliged, fingers dancing across the keys while he spoke. "Fury said he put trackers on Barnes and was shifty about whether or not he did the same to Steve, so we can assume Steve has them too."

"The trackers are off," Sam put in. "We already tried that."

"Yes," Tony allowed, eyes glued to the glowing screen. "And that's all we looked at back at the compound, but if they still _physically_ have the trackers on their person, then I can..." he trailed off, fingers slowing. He frowned at the screen.

"What?" Clint demanded. He was at Tony's side in a second, hands gripping the back of Tony's chair as he leaned uncomfortably close.

"Stark," Natasha added from somewhere behind Tony. "Tell us what's going on."

"One of Barnes' trackers just came back online," Tony finally said through suddenly numb lips.

.

.

Bucky's fingers were slick with red blood. He could feel Steve's eyes on him and he could almost hear the words that were surely stuck in Steve's throat.

But he ignored all of that, focusing on the little device he held pinched between two fingers.

Goosebumps were bursting out on his bare torso; the mountain air was cold against his skin. His shirt was crumbled at his feet, and the scarred flesh where his body met his metal shoulder was bleeding freely from where he had dug out the tracker that Fury had put there only a week ago.

The little black cylinder had been missed by HYDRA's initial search, or maybe they hadn't bothered to take any of the trackers out after they had turned them off.

They wouldn't have dared use an EMP on him—they couldn't risk wrecking his metal arm—and must have used a different device to turn off the trackers without removing them; perhaps it had been deemed too much work to take them out.

Human laziness had possibly just saved their lives.

"Is it on?" Steve asked lowly, voice snaking through the cold air.

Bucky looked up from his blood soaked fingers. It was dark and soon it would be too dark to move through the forest without tripping on the tangled underbrush, but they would keep moving; HYDRA wasn't going to stop just because the sun had set.

"I think so," Bucky said. He had fiddled with the thing after digging it out, careful not to let it slip out between his fingers, and had found a little divot in the metal. He had forced his thumbnail into it and cracked the tracker open. From there it was a matter of guessing what needed to be reset to turn it back on. "We won't know for sure until they come for us."

 _If they come_ , Bucky added silently. He had no doubt Clint would try, but if HYDRA got to them first...well, Bucky knew they wouldn't be able to escape a second time.

"You might have saved our lives, Steve," Bucky said conversationally, not really looking at the other man. "Earlier you asked me if HYDRA ever put trackers on me. I couldn't stop thinking about that." He gestured vaguely to his bleeding shoulder; it was the result of remembering that Fury had done his part to keep an eye on him. He didn't know where all of the trackers were, and it had been pure dumb luck that he even knew that one had been placed near the metal of his arm; someone had thought they were being clever, thinking that if scanned the tracker wouldn't be found because of the interference from the metal panels that were fused to Bucky's skin.

He picked up his shirt, carefully cleaning the tracker with the edge of the hem. He then dropped the device into his pants' pocket, patting it absently; with any luck, the little thing was going to get them out of the woods with the help of SHIELD.

His mouth curled at the thought of owing Fury, but it was better than being back in HYDRA's oh so gentle care.

Bucky ignored the blood on his shoulder and started to shrug his shirt back on.

"Bucky," Steve said, breaking the silence. "Your side is bleeding."

Surprised, Bucky paused and looked down to where Steve was pointing. He was right; there was an angry looking gash etched into his pale skin, right above his hip.

He vaguely remembered a bullet sliding along his side, back in the room with the chair, but it hadn't been painful then and it wasn't painful now.

"It doesn't hurt," Bucky said, poking it gently with his finger. It was bleeding sluggishly, but it wasn't anything to get worked up over. "We need to keep moving. We can't rely on Clint or Fury to come save us." He pulled his shirt down, finally noticing that it had been sticking to his bloody side this whole time.

"Wait, Bucky, hold up." Steve's voice rang out, freezing Bucky into place.

Bucky tugged at his shirt, looking back to where Steve was still standing.

"What? We don't really have time to stand around, Steve," he said. "Is this about the blood? Because I've had worse—"

Steve's face dropped into a frown at that.

"—it doesn't hurt," Bucky hurriedly added.

Steve shook his head. "That's not...I just..." Steve stumbled over his words, a frustrated look overtaking the frown on his face. "Back in the base—"

Bucky grimaced. "You're asking about what happened with the chair." It wasn't a question. It had only been a matter of time before Steve asked him about it. Granted, this wasn't the best time, but maybe the cover of darkness and their complete isolation made Steve confidant that he might get an answer out of Bucky.

"Yeah. That," Steve said. "If the chair was broken than why...?"

Bucky shifted, eyes skimming Steve's tense frame before looking away. "Well, it wasn't hard to mimic the effects. Even if I don't really remember when they used it on me, I saw it happen to you enough times." He knew that wasn't what Steve was asking, so with a small breath he continued, "I've got a lot of suffering rattling around in me, Steve. Sometimes it demands to be heard."

Uncomfortable with the heavy stare that Steve was giving him, Bucky turned around.

He cleared his throat. "Come on, we need to move."

A branch snapped somewhere in the depths of the forest behind them. Bucky froze, and then jerked his head around to meet Steve's wide eyes.

"They're here," he snapped and then they started to run.

.

.

A/N: Holy shit this chapter kicked my ass. I'm sorry for the long delay in getting it posted...it was just really hard for some reason. I actually really dislike most of it, because it's not doing what I wanted it to, but at this point, I think I've been staring at it for too long.

Anyway, hopefully it's not too bad and you guys enjoy it well enough.

As always, thank you for your support through reviews/follows/favorites. I need them all to remind me that there are people out there that are reading and (hopefully) enjoying my writing.


	20. Chapter 20

[20]

A shot cracked out into the air, vibrating through the trees. Beams of lights from flashlights on rifles dogged their heels, but Bucky and Steve ran on, both mindful that their lives might be forfeit now; maybe HYDRA had decided they were more trouble than they were worth and would shoot them dead, instead of bringing them back.

That felt wrong to Bucky somehow; HYDRA had spent years making him into the Winter Soldier, it didn't seem right that they would just throw all that time away without a second thought.

Shouts rose up behind them, indicating that the base they had left in ruins had indeed managed to contact reinforcements; there were too many of them in the woods for it to just be the soldiers who had survived the base's destruction.

A heavy stone sunk in Bucky's gut, and he knew that they weren't going to make it out of this unless they managed to find civilization in the next few minutes.

He threw a wild look to where Steve was running next to him, and it suddenly occurred to him, that Steve was holding himself back so that Bucky could keep up. If it wasn't for Bucky, Steve would have already left the HYDRA soldiers far behind him.

A flash of a memory hit him.

" _Steve! You idiot! Slow down!" But it was too late. The man with a plan was too far away, not realizing that he had accidently left his men in the dust._

 _Bucky growled low in his throat, and despite the danger that was hanging thick in the air, he was already devising just what he was going to do and say to the big blonde idiot when they made it out of this mission alive. It was going to start with something like: MORON! and then end with: I can't watch your back if you leave me behind._

Bucky roughly shook his head, and the memory disappeared with the motion; now wasn't the time to be taking a trip down memory lane. It could get him taken or killed, and then what would be the point of remembering his past?

"You better start using your speed, Rogers," Bucky bit out between jagged huffs of breath.

Steve sent him a swift look. "I'm not leaving you."

"My arm slows me down," Bucky said, not bothering to point out that even without his metal arm, Bucky wouldn't be as fast; he didn't have the same pure serum that Steve had. "I'm not going to be the one to drag you down. Leave and then come back for me when you find Clint."

"Not gonna happen," Steve shot back, and then purposely slowed his pace even more so that he and Bucky were neck and neck.

"Moron," Bucky muttered, but a swell of relief ballooned in his chest; he didn't want to be alone, not anymore, and especially not when HYDRA took them again. Maybe it was selfish, but Bucky was tired of the silence that echoed his screams of pain back to him.

There was a growl of an engine behind them, and Bucky knew that the soldiers must have several dirt bikes and would be gaining on them shortly.

He gritted his teeth and urged his legs on.

Trees whipped by them, thin branches catching on his shirt and whipping him in the face. The sting of pain was easy to ignore when the promise of torture and blood was chasing them at their heels.

It was a miracle they weren't tripping on loose rocks or thick roots, and Bucky vaguely wondered if it was their super soldier serum at work that was making them surefooted.

The sound of what must have been one of the dirt bikes echoed behind them and then the crack of a gun kicked dirt up at their feet.

They cut sharply to the right, moving as one unit, but from the sound of engines, they were slowly being flanked.

Abruptly, Steve let out a sharp cry and he went down, hitting the dirt heavily.

Bucky skidded, boots scrabbling for purchase as he made a quick turnaround.

Steve was on the ground, crumbled into a pile of loose limbs. He was facing Bucky, mouth etched into a grimace. One hand was clamped down on his calf while the other was flapping at Bucky, urging him to continue, to leave him behind.

Bucky let out a snort even though he knew that Steve wouldn't hear it. If Steve thought that he would leave him so easily after everything than maybe Steve didn't know him as well as he thought.

Ignoring the yells that were getting closer, Bucky dropped to his knees, next to Steve.

"Where'd they get you?" he asked, raising his hands and letting them hover over Steve's quivering form.

"My leg," Steve growled, anger glistening in his eyes.

Bucky looked at where Steve's hand was pressing into his calf. Blood was leaking between his fingers, but the shot was meant to wound, not to kill.

He reached out, gently removing Steve's hand so he could get a look at the hole.

Blood gushed out from the wound when Steve's pale hand unfastened, but a quick look confirmed what Bucky already knew; the shot had missed bone and anything vital, but a quick feel of his fingers told Bucky that the bullet hadn't exited, essentially crippling Steve. The shooter was either incredibly skilled or incredibly lucky. It didn't really matter which because Bucky was going to kill him either way.

They were being surrounded, shapes of soldiers dressed in dark fatigues hovered in the edge of Bucky's vision, but he kept his focus on Steve, who watched helplessly from the ground as their freedom was swallowed whole.

Bucky plucked up the hem of his shirt and tore a long strip off it. With deft fingers he tied it around Steve's leg, making sure to keep it tight; it wouldn't hold for long and eventually Steve was going to need to have the wound taken care of, but the makeshift bandage would suffice for now.

His shirt was jagged at the bottom now and a slight breeze skittered across his skin, sending goosebumps pebbling on his stomach. He shivered, and he knew it wasn't just from the cold.

"You're going to be fine," he finally said to Steve, indicating the dark bandage on Steve's leg.

Steve's face was damp with sweat and his eyes were hollow as he looked up at Bucky.

"No. We're not going to be fine, Bucky," he said quietly.

It was then that Bucky realized silence had fallen over the forest; the soldiers and their guns and their engines had been quieted as if they were watching Bucky and Steve, waiting for them to make their next move.

He looked up, eyes darting around the inner circle of soldiers, knowing that there were more than just the ones he could see in the light from their flashlights and dirt bike headlights.

"Soldat."

Bucky's eyes snapped shut as if he could keep that voice out of his head by pretending the man didn't exist, but it was childish and didn't work anyway.

Boots scuffled in front of them, and Bucky opened his eyes, looking up into the face that he had left behind at the base.

"Karpov."

.

.

"The signal is still strong." Tony's voice sounded behind Clint, loud to be heard over the rumble of the quinjet, but he didn't turn around to look at the other man. His focus was on flying the jet.

His hands were gripped tightly around the vibrating joysticks and he was glaring out the windshield. It was dark out, the sun had completely disappeared behind the mountains, and while flying at night wasn't any harder than flying during the day, Clint wanted to keep his sole attention on getting them to where Bucky and Steve were.

"Looks like you were right, Birdma—Clint," Tony continued, cutting himself off before using an irritating nickname.

Annoyance flared vaguely in Clint's chest, but he also appreciated the effort Tony was putting in to _not_ using nicknames anymore, and anyway, after this mission, they wouldn't have to see each other anymore.

"How far out are we?" Clint asked, not bothering to acknowledge that he was right about there being a HYDRA base in Montana. It had been a gut feeling, one that he had questioned every couple of minutes since getting to Montana, even though he _knew_ he was right.

"Ten minutes," Tony said.

It had already been too long since Bucky and Steve had been taken; ten more minutes probably wouldn't make much of a difference, but it didn't stop anxiety from spreading rapidly along Clint's skin. He shivered slightly, knuckles turning white from where he was gripping the controls.

A second later, Natasha's cool hand appeared on his forearm. He didn't flinch away from the contact, even though it startled him.

He threw her a look. She was sitting in the co-pilot's chair, staring back at him, and didn't move her hand from his arm.

Her red hair was pulled back in a French braid and she was dressed all in black. The image of her sitting there, dressed like that, hit Clint with a brick of nostalgia.

Some days—most days, he wished that aliens had never attacked New York and it was just the two of them running missions for SHIELD. It wasn't exactly the good days, but it was better than where they were now. The trust between them was fractured and hesitant now, and would take time to repair. The problem was that Clint _did_ trust her, but couldn't shake the feeling that someday she might turn around and do the same thing again if she felt like it was necessary.

He just wanted to be able to regain that feeling that if he jumped off a building, she would be there to catch him. Okay, not a good example; he would straight up crush her if they tried that, but the sentiment remained.

But no matter how he looked at it, everything had changed and it was never going to be just the two of them again.

Clint blinked rapidly, and then threw her a flash of a grin; a silent thanks for the support she offered because whatever else happened, she _was_ his family.

She frowned back, most likely out of concern for him, and then gently removed her hand.

"So what's the plan exactly?" Sam asked, breaking into their silent conversation. His voice was somewhere in the depths of the jet's belly; he was probably sitting on one of the benches with Tony. "HYDRA has Steve and Barnes, right? But even with the tracker, we don't know for sure where they are. And we can't just stroll into the base."

Clint frowned, fingers tightening around the joysticks.

"And not to point out the obvious," Sam continued when no one spoke up, "but there's only four of us."

"But most of us are Avengers," Tony said, and Clint could just picture the confident shrug. "Check and mate, second birdman."

For once, Clint didn't feel like punching Tony for speaking; Sam was just stating facts, but that didn't mean they were welcome.

"We're going to bust the fucking door off the base," Clint said after a beat, "and then we're going to rescue our people."

"Yeah," Tony said. "What Clint said."

Clint almost rolled his eyes, but a tall tree abruptly appeared in his view and with a bit off _fuck!_ he pulled sharply on the controls of the jet, missing the obstacle with inches to spare.

"Holy shit," Tony muttered, and then didn't speak again.

He clearly thought that Clint needed to concentrate so that they wouldn't all die, and while that wasn't going to happen, Clint was happy for the silence.

.

.

A heavy boot connected with Bucky's side—Karpov was stronger than he looked—and it sent Bucky sprawling from Steve's side into the hard packed earth.

He landed heavily on his hip, but immediately rolled so that he was sitting up a second later. He stayed hunched on the ground with his knees bent, ready to jump up if anyone else made a move towards him.

He barred his teeth at Karpov, but didn't say anything, waiting for the other man to make the first move.

Karpov inched closer, crouching down so that they were face to face. He kept an arm's length away from Bucky, wisely knowing that given the chance Bucky wouldn't spare his life again.

Bucky studied Karpov's pale face in the dim light, noting the purple bruises that were starting to spread from where Bucky had gripped his face tightly between two hands, almost crushing his skull between them.

"You almost killed me," Karpov said, voice lowering so that only Bucky could hear.

Bucky blinked impassively at him, and then shrugged. "I should have finished the job." The words were flippant, but there was an ache in Bucky's hands as if they wanted to finish what they started.

But maybe that was just the Winter Soldier begging to come out again.

"The Captain saved my life," Karpov said, eyes flicking to where Steve was watching them with hooded eyes. His hands were bloody from where he had been gripping his leg and his lips were tight and white with clipped pain. A faint sheen of sweat covered his face, but the leg wound wouldn't stop him if Bucky decided they were going to punch their way out of this; he could see the fight burning in Steve's eyes.

"So save his," Bucky said, nodding in Steve's direction; Steve wasn't in danger of dying, but the first step to getting free was getting Steve patched up.

Karpov followed his gaze, and seemed to notice for the first time that Steve had been shot.

He rose and moved to stand over Steve, eyeing him and the blood that had made a small pool around him in the time it took for Bucky to bind his leg.

Bucky silently stood up too, but didn't make any move to attack Karpov; he knew he would be taken down before he got his hands around Karpov's neck.

"Thank you, Captain," Karpov said, a flicker of a smile spread across his lips, gone in a flash, while Steve sneered back up at him. Karpov's voice rose a second later. "Who shot the good Captain?" He turned on his heel, looking at the men who surrounded them. "Which one of you took down Captain America himself?" He grinned as if this was all some big joke, but Bucky's shoulders tensed at the façade of friendliness; Karpov was viper just waiting to strike.

"I did." A man stepped forward, half raising his hand. He let it drop back down to his side when he felt Karpov and Bucky's eyes on him.

Bucky's lips twisted at the soldier; he didn't know if the man was incredibly brave or just stupid.

"Good work, soldier," Karpov said. "You stopped our two prisoners from escaping."

"I meant to shoot him—" the soldier started with a flash of a relieved smile.

 _So he was just stupid_ , Bucky thought, and then without waiting for Karpov or even for the man to finish his sentence, stalked forward and grabbed the man's throat with his metal hand.

The man let out a small yelp, words getting lost in his throat. His eyes bulged and his hands tore at Bucky's unyielding hand, but Bucky didn't let go.

 _This_ man had hurt Steve, and had meant to do more than just wound him; he had meant to kill him.

Bucky's fingers tightened and the man had no breath left to even squeal, face turning a faint shade of blue.

"Bucky, stop!" Steve's voice broke through Bucky's haze of anger and his fingers immediately loosened their grip, but he didn't let go of the soldier.

A shudder shook Bucky, and he banished the trickles of the Winter Soldier that had just come through. He glared at the soldier hanging limply in his hand. The soldier couldn't speak, but his eyes were full of fear as he silently begged for his life.

A slight shiver rippled down Bucky's form again and he let the soldier drop into a heap on the ground. He toed the soldier with his boot and then turned, facing Karpov and Steve again.

"Ah, Captain, you are no fun," Karpov said while he stared at Bucky. Any trace of fake amusement was gone from his face and all Bucky could see was cold anger.

It had been another one of Karpov's tests, games really, and Bucky had almost fallen right into it.

Bucky's teeth clamped together and he took a step towards Karpov, a low growl in the back of his throat, but Karpov was ready for him this time and in seconds had a black pistol gripped in his hand and pointed at Steve's head.

"Another step and your friend dies," Karpov snapped.

"I thought you wanted both of us," Steve snarled from his spot on the ground. He didn't sound afraid, but Bucky was. His heart was beating wildly against his ribs and his mouth had gone dry at the thought of a bullet ripping through Steve's skull; even a super soldier wouldn't survive that.

Karpov shrugged. "I do, but I'd rather have the Winter Soldier back, and I'm not going to die while you live, Captain."

"If you kill him, _I'll_ kill you," Bucky bit out. His hands curled uselessly at his sides, but the promise of death rang clearly in his voice; Karpov would be dead seconds after he pulled the trigger.

"You're digging your own grave," Steve added. "I saved you once, but I won't stop him again."

Karpov laughed, but he was the only one. The sound bounced back to him and he stopped almost as quickly as he started.

"I'm afraid that there is no one coming to save you either." He shifted towards Bucky. "I win, Soldat."

Bucky sneered back and his hand went down to his pants. He slipped his hand into the pocket, fingers feeling along the hard little tracker.

He froze as he traced the small cylinder.

The tracker was broken. Smashed when he had been kicked over by Karpov.

He swallowed roughly, eyes flicking to Steve's. Karpov was right: No one was coming to save them.

.

.

"Fuck! We just lost Barnes' signal," Tony snapped, staring incredulously at the computer screen, but it just blinked blankly back at him, mocking him with its complete lack of information.

The strong signal had disappeared and it didn't look like it was coming back; they had lost Steve and Barnes again.

"We know that they're here somewhere," Clint said, voice clipped. He was still flying the quinjet and wasn't looking at where Tony was in the back of the jet with Sam.

Natasha was by Clint's side in the co-pilot chair, but she wasn't looking at Tony either. Her eyes were on Clint, waiting for him to explode or maybe just waiting to see if he was going to do something stupid.

Well, she didn't need to worry because Tony wasn't going to wait for Clint to be stupid.

It was Tony's turn.

"I'm going out there," Tony said, abandoning the laptop and standing up. His metal boots hit the floor the jet with a clang that was lost over the purr of the jet's engines.

He could feel Sam's wide eyes on him from where he sat across the jet, but he was ignored.

"What?" Clint said, shoulders tense and hunched over the controls; he wasn't really paying attention, focus on the passing landscape as if there was an answer to where the HYDRA base was down there.

"I'm going out there," Tony repeated and then didn't wait for someone to stop him.

He turned on his heel and he punched the yellow button that opened the back of the jet.

Immediately a wild gust of wind rushed in, alerting everyone to Tony's plan.

They all jerked around to face him, but Tony wasn't going to let them stop him. He gave them a two fingered salute, letting the rest of his metal suit spread out across his arms and chest.

"Stark—" Natasha yelled, wisps of hair snapping into her face.

"Tony, wait!" Sam said, struggling to get out of the bench he was strapped into.

Ignoring all of them, Tony let his Iron Man helmet snap into place, and then took two steps forward before flinging himself out of the back of the jet.

.

.

The night air was thick, only broken by the lights from the HYDRA soldiers.

Bucky felt like he was being choked, not just from the heavy and oppressive air, but also because of the utter defeat that they were facing.

The tracker was shattered, and even if Clint had been on his way, there was no possibility that his friend was close enough to guess their location now.

Bucky swallowed roughly, eyes flicking around the small circle of HYDRA men that had formed around them; there were too many soldiers to punch his way out of this mess.

"If you do not bend to HYRDRA—to me," Karpov said, breaking the silence, "then you will snap in half."

Bucky eyed him, a small snarl rising in his throat; defeat might be the only outcome, but that didn't mean he had to give Karpov the satisfaction of bowing down to him like a cowed dog.

Karpov didn't seem to notice, and he continued speaking, but Bucky tuned him out as he tried to figure a way out of this that left, at least, Steve alive.

Options were limited.

From his earlier assessment, there were too many HYDRA grunts to account for, and Steve was wounded, making things more difficult. And anyway, Steve wouldn't leave Bucky behind if there was somehow a chance for him to make a run for it. That little fact was currently the bane of Bucky's existence; they weren't going to survive if they kept letting opportunities to escape pass by when they refused to leave each other.

Or maybe that's why they were still alive— _still sane_.

Karpov had kept talking, voice buzzing in the silence of the trees, but Bucky couldn't be bothered with Karpov's 'villain speech,' he was too busy considering letting the Winter Soldier take control.

It would be a risky play; Bucky didn't exactly know how the Soldier would react to being out, and things could end more violently than he wanted. He thought about that for a second, envisioning the ripped skin and pools of blood that the Soldier would leave in his wake; it wasn't what Bucky wanted, but if they _wanted_ to escape, it might be what they needed.

A grimace twisted his lips; because even if Bucky was thinking about the two of them as separate beings, they weren't. They were one and the same person. The Winter Soldier was just a darker version of who he was.

If Bucky was being honest, the Winter Soldier—by a different, lesser name—had always been there, even before Zola had experimented on him. Growing up in Brooklyn during the Depression had forced him to get smart, and sometimes that meant mean, and then the war had taken his carefully blunted edges and sharpened them into a weapon to be used. To do the things that Steve wouldn't, or _couldn't_ , do.

He hadn't minded getting his hands a little bloody. Especially if that meant keeping Steve safe.

But then HYDRA, and consequently Zola, had seen this side of him and used it. _Exploited_ it.

That's not to say that Bucky had ever been in control of his actions as the Winter Soldier, and he really couldn't blame himself for what he had done because he had _never_ been in control of his own mind when the Winter Soldier was out. Not that it stopped him, and others (Stark) from shoving the blame down his throat.

Bucky roughly shook his head; he was getting things muddled—memories and past thoughts of who he was were flashing through his mind, confusing him, but this is what he knew: He was Bucky Barnes _and_ the Winter Soldier, and when HYDRA got their hands on him, they had ripped the Winter Soldier out into the open, shoving Bucky Barnes into the depths of his mind. They eagerly took the darkness that hovered and swirled in Bucky's being and molded him into what they wanted, _making_ him into the Winter Soldier.

Unconsciously, Bucky's fingers curled in on themselves, fingernails biting into his flesh palm, bringing him back to awareness with their faint stings of pain.

Bucky inhaled the cool mountain air, letting it fill his lungs as he took in his surroundings again. He frowned at the HYDRA soldiers as the patiently waited for Karpov to finish monologuing, and he wondered if it was worth letting his darkness out to play; the Winter Soldier might not leave as easily as he came.

He glanced over to the heavy black pistol gripped tightly in Karpov's hand. It was still trained firmly on Steve, but, again, Karpov was keeping his distance, knowing that if he was too close Steve would easily rip the pistol away.

Steve caught his eye, shaking his head slightly, as if he knew that Bucky was willing to let the Winter Soldier out to save him.

When had it happened that they didn't need words to communicate?

Bucky didn't know, but he did know that he didn't want to lose it to Karpov and the Chair.

The question now was how he was going to kill Karpov without getting Steve killed in the process.

It seemed that it was now a foregone conclusion that Karpov had to die, but Bucky didn't think it would be out of anger or revenge this time. Now he had to die for their survival because it was clear that he would never let Bucky go again.

There was a sudden roar of a small engine and the stomp of boots, so loud that it seemed absurd that Bucky hadn't heard them coming until they were right on top of them.

Bucky tensed, spinning on his heel and twisting to scan the circle of HYDRA men.

More soldiers had appeared, flittering into the gaps with rifles held easily in their hands.

From the sound of engines, Bucky guessed more dirt bikes or four-wheelers had also joined the few others Karpov had brought with him.

He shot dark glares at the soldiers around him, but none of them were looking at him. He briefly wondered what the point of all their fanfare was; they were just the second wave of soldiers sent to help bring the two super soldiers in, but then he realized that most of the soldiers were staring at Karpov.

His glare faded into a confused frown and he turned to face Karpov and Steve again.

Karpov's face, difficult to see clearly in the dark, was pale and his lips were pressed tightly together. The gun, still pointed at Steve, was shaking slightly.

To Bucky's right, the line of soldiers broke apart and a man appeared, striding towards Karpov. He was dressed in crisp black fatigues, just like the rest of the soldiers, but it was clear that this man was in charge.

The man glanced at Karpov, eyes going to Steve's huddled form on the ground before he turned his gaze to Bucky. Even in the dark, there was no mistaking the awe and, strangely, pride in his eyes.

"It's an honor," he said to Bucky, voice loud to be heard over the humming engines. There was a faint accent that lined his words, soft and difficult to place. "I'm Major Lynch. Sent by—"

"I know who sent you," Bucky interrupted with a low growl. "HYDRA wants their Soldier back."

Lynch gave an easy nod. "They never stopped looking for you." He clasped his hands in front of him and turned to Karpov. "Colonel Karpov. Your work with the Soldier in the 90's was groundbreaking."

Karpov's throat bobbed as he swallowed roughly, but didn't respond.

Bucky's eyes narrowed; Karpov was scared. The situation back at the base suddenly became clear: Karpov had never been working under the guidance of HYDRA; he had always wanted Bucky back, but it hadn't been to force him into the skin of the Winter Soldier for HYDRA's use. It had been because Karpov was a sick twisted man that wanted to test the limits and boundaries of Bucky's will to survive.

He had been working without HYDRA's blessing this whole time, but HYDRA had finally caught up to him.

Bucky locked eyes with Steve, watching as the other man worked through the same stream of thoughts and came to the same conclusion.

Steve's eyes widened, and for once, he didn't seem like he knew what to do. They were in a muddled mess of HYDRA soldiers where some of them weren't even on the same side. Even if they fought their way out of Karpov's group, Lynch's soldiers would be waiting to take them.

"HYDRA thanks you for your service," Lynch continued, and Bucky tore his eyes from Steve to stare at HYDRA's true man. Two seconds before the pistol was drawn, Bucky knew that Karpov was about to die.

Which was a bit of a fucking inconvenience with Steve in the line of fire.

Fear gripped Bucky's chest, and he was moving without even thinking about it. He took several large steps forward before throwing himself into a jump.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky saw Lynch draw his pistol and raise it.

Karpov stiffened, hand tightening around his own gun in a worrying manner, but Bucky was already there, arms outstretched in front of him. For a beat, he saw relief flood Karpov's eyes—the other man thought Bucky was trying to save him, but then Bucky landed, boots hitting the dirt with twin thumps.

He gave Karpov a quick, savage look as he shoved Karpov's pistol away from Steve's head before he covered Steve's body with his own, waiting for Lynch to take the shot.

With his head curled over Steve's, Bucky didn't see the bullet enter Karpov, but he heard the shot. It was deafening, even over the sound of the engines that had faded into the background.

There was a faint _thud_ of a body hitting the ground, but Bucky didn't move, arms encircled tightly around Steve.

His chest was rising and falling rapidly, adrenaline coursing through his veins. It took him a second to realize that he was trembling against Steve.

Steve's hand was suddenly gripping his flesh forearm, grounding him with the contact.

Steve's chin rose and he locked eyes with Bucky. They were close, breathes mingling with each other, and for a moment they were the only two people in the forest.

"I think he's dead," Bucky said hoarsely. He throat was dry for some reason, and he swallowed convulsively.

"He is," Steve said, eyes flicking down to the gap under Bucky's arm. He probably could see the body, but he didn't move out of Bucky's protective grip. "He's dead, Bucky."

The words were final, like the last nail in a coffin.

The man who had shredded Bucky's mind into little pieces for over a decade was finally dead.

Bucky didn't know what he was feeling as he processed Steve's words. Was it joy—no; he wasn't happy, but he also wasn't sorry to see Karpov dead either.

Bucky eased away from Steve, twisting around to face Karpov for a final time.

Steve's hand stayed on his arm, and he was thankful for the anchor.

He couldn't see where the bullet had entered Karpov; the body was slumped face down in the dirt, and blood was rapidly spreading from it, forming a dark pool.

Cocking his head to the side, Bucky took a slow step forward, gently shaking Steve's hand off.

"Bucky..." Steve said quietly, voice strained.

"I'm just making sure he's really dead," Bucky said, keeping his eyes on the body.

"I assure you, he is," Lynch said, but his voice was faraway and Bucky ignored him for now.

Two more steps took him to the edge of the blood, and Bucky carefully crouched down, eyeing his dark reflection in the red before reaching his metal hand out to turn Karpov's body until his lifeless eyes were staring at the stars.

Hesitantly, Bucky reached his flesh hand out, pressing his fingers to Karpov's neck.

Nothing.

There was no pulse under his fingertips.

Karpov was really dead.

Bucky took a shuddering breath, hand sliding down to Karpov's palm. His fingers brushed against the black gun. He knew that Lynch was watching him, but it was dark. Maybe dark enough that they wouldn't see him take the gun from Karpov's limp fingers.

He sat back on his heels, dragging the pistol with him. He didn't know what he could do with just one pistol; there was still too many men.

A sudden, selfish thought crawled through his mind, and his grip on the gun tightened.

"Asset?" Lynch's voice lashed out. "Drop that gun."

Apparently, it _wasn't_ dark enough.

Bucky abruptly rose, hearing the clicks of more than one gun being cocked and pointed at him; these men were willing to die for HYDRA, but they knew that given the chance, the Winter Soldier would kill each and every one of them without a second thought.

Lynch was suddenly in front of Bucky, hands outstretched like Bucky was a rabid animal. His eyes were wide and white in the dark.

"Put the gun down," he said. His voice was calm, and Bucky couldn't see a hint of fear in his eyes; the man was braver than Karpov. Or maybe just a true believer.

Bucky's lips pulled against his teeth as he grimaced, and he lifted the gun, pressing it against his skull.

Two voices yelled out at his movement.

"Bucky, no!" Steve shouted from behind him, while Lynch snapped, "Put the gun _down_ , Asset."

Bucky could hear struggling behind him, and he knew that Steve was trying to stand up. Stupid punk.

Bucky slowly turned on his heel until he could see Steve, keeping Lynch in view while he did so.

He eyed Steve, the other man was standing on shaky feet, face pale and bloodless. Bucky's dark shirt around Steve's leg was soaked with blood, looking wet and useless.

Fear again clutched at Bucky's throat; Steve needed to escape. He needed to get help, not just for his leg wound, but because Steve didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to be used by HYDRA, like Bucky had been. He was a good man with more light inside of him than anyone Bucky knew.

But HYDRA would crack Steve open and let that light spill out until there was nothing left but darkness, and Steve would never recover. He would _never_ be the same person.

And Bucky wouldn't allow that.

"You let him go," Bucky said, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. "I won't kill myself, but you need to let Steve go."

"And if I don't?" Lynch said, sliding closer so that Bucky didn't have to go cross-eyed trying to keep both Steve and Lynch in view.

Bucky shrugged, and his hand went white from where he was gripping the pistol.

"I shoot my brains out." He paused. "And HYDRA will never get their Soldier back."

"If you kill yourself, your bargaining chip is gone and you save no one," Lynch said with a slight shrug, but his shoulders were tense; he didn't want to be the one who lost HYDRA's Asset.

Fuck, Lynch was right; Bucky really hadn't thought this one through—there just hadn't been enough time.

"Bucky," Steve said quietly. "Don't do it. You can't...please, don't leave me." His voice cracked and he took a shuddering breath.

Bucky's eyes snapped to Steve, knowing that it was stupid to ignore Lynch, but Steve was...more important.

Steve was swaying, and his eyes were wide with pain. Blood and sweat were streaked across his skin, and as he stared at him, Bucky knew that—

" _I'm never going to leave you, Stevie. No matter what happens. It's you and me."_

—the childish voice rang through Bucky's head, but even as a child, he knew how important Steve was and would always be.

He found Steve's eyes, and slowly lowered the pistol, letting it hang loosely at his side. The absence of the cold metal against his skin wasn't the relief Bucky thought it might be; he didn't _want_ to die, but he didn't want to be alive for HYDRA either.

Rough hands suddenly grabbed Bucky, pulling him away from Steve, who was looking too weak to be standing; the bullet still in his leg was causing problems.

The pistol was twisted out of his hand, snapping one of his fingers in the process.

Bucky let out a growl and threw his metal fist out, hitting the nearest soldier.

The soldier went down hard.

But there was another one already there, taking his place.

Arms and hands gripped Bucky, choking him with their proximity.

He couldn't _breathe_.

Bucky's fingers scrabbled against the bodies pressing on him, trying to shove them away, but they stayed firm.

He could hear Lynch speaking, but it wasn't loud enough that he could make out the words.

His hand looped onto the belt of one of the soldiers, and before he shoved him away, Bucky slipped a knobby grenade off the belt.

He gripped it tightly in his hand, and pressing it to his lips, he pulled the pin out with his teeth. Then, as they forced him down to the dirt, Bucky tore his metal arm free and lobbed the thing blindly away from him.

It was a hopeless attempt at an escape, but Bucky never intended to go down without fighting.

.

.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Clint bit out, hands tight around the controls of the quinjet.

"Relax," Natasha said. "Tony just is giving us more eyes to find them."

That might be true, but it wasn't like they needed to lose _another_ team member to the yawning black night that surrounded Helena.

"I swear, if we find Bucky and Steve and Tony doesn't show himself, we're leaving his ass," Clint snapped.

No one left on the jet argued with him, and it occurred to Clint that while Sam might have nerves of steel (he had to, to fight alongside Steve and fly with those metal wings strapped to his back), Clint's erratic flying and anger was probably testing even his nerves.

He forced himself to take a breath and then steadied his hands.

"We know they're around here somewhere. We need to look for..." he trailed off, because what could they look for? HYDRA's base wouldn't be lit up like a Christmas tree; they were a covert organization that had remained hidden for decades, they weren't going to be undone because some tech forgot to shut the lights off.

He could feel Natasha's eyes on him.

"This is impossible," he muttered. "We need Fury. We need more men, boots on the ground."

"You know we don't have that," Natasha said from his side. "Get your head screwed on straight, Barton, and let's figure this out."

Clint eyes were flicking from side to side as he stared out into the inky blackness of the night; he couldn't see shit.

His teeth caught the inside of his cheek and blood flooded his mouth; it didn't help him concentrate.

They were so _close_ , and Clint wasn't about to lose Bucky and Steve again because he was too stupid to find a way to the HYDRA base.

"Barton—," Sam started to say, but he never finished.

There was a sudden burst of light about a mile ahead of them. It disappeared almost as quickly as it had come, but Clint would know what that was anywhere.

"Grenade," he said, eyes flashing to Natasha's.

Her green eyes held his for a beat and then they both straightened against their seats, facing the windshield again.

Hope blossomed in Clint's chest, and he took a deep breath. He didn't know what the grenade blast meant, but he did know that if Bucky or Steve wasn't behind it, he would eat his bow.

Those two crazy super soldiers were already escaping or needed help, either way, Clint wasn't going to fail them again.

.

.

Steve was on the ground, helplessly watching as the HYDRA soldiers piled onto Bucky, using brute force to shove their Asset into the dirt.

Bucky wasn't fighting back like he should have been. The grenade had startled everyone, and had given him a moment's respite, and in that time, Bucky had killed three soldiers with his metal hand.

But it wasn't enough.

And now, with any hope of truly escaping fading away, it seemed like Bucky had gone limp, letting whatever happen, happen.

Steve's hands were caked with drying blood, and his leg throbbed in time with his wildly beating heart.

The damn bullet was still buried in the meat of his leg, and Steve knew that it was being jostled every time he moved, causing more blood to well up and soak into Bucky's shirt.

He let out a low growl; if he hadn't been shot, they would have escaped. Hell, if he wasn't bleeding like a stuck pig, he could be fighting with Bucky right now, and there was no doubt in his mind that they could have made it out.

But now...

Now, they were going back to HYDRA, and this time, there would be no miraculous escape.

Lynch would take them to a new, better equipped base where Bucky would immediately be wiped and then put onto ice.

And Steve would be forced to watch the process until they were ready to try and break him.

They wouldn't succeed—or would they? Steve didn't know. He had his convictions and his will, stronger than most men's, but without Bucky at side, how long would he really last?

It might not happen right away, but HYDRA would slowly chip away at everything he was until nothing but bone remained. They would take and take, and then drape him with the skin of HYDRA's choosing.

A shudder rippled down him, and Steve squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn't block out the noise of his best friend, his brother, being beat into submission. Or the noise of the engines nearby, waiting to take them away. Or the sound of thrusters in the night sky above him.

Wait.

Steve's eyes flew open and he tipped his head up to the sky, craning to see what was coming.

It was hard to see through the branches of the trees, but it was kind of hard to miss Iron Man in all his glory speeding towards them, white streams of light trailing behind him.

Tony landed heavily, clumps of dirt shooting out from where his metal feet hit the ground. His helmeted head swiveled as he took in the scene around him in a matter of seconds. Then, he raised his hands, palms glowing bright with suppressed energy.

"Hey," Tony said, voice distorted, "just thought I might drop in—yikes, that was such a dad joke. I can't believe I just said that."

The whine coming from his palms filled the air, pressing against Steve's eardrums, but the shouts of surprise from the HYDRA soldiers overtook the small sound.

They seemed unsure if they should charge Tony or scatter. Some of them fired their rifles, but the bullets didn't do anything against Tony's suit, and they simply ricocheted off.

In the end it didn't matter if they ran away or stayed.

Steve watched as Tony turned his attention to the mountain of men who were piled on top of Bucky, like some demented dog-pile. They were blasted off a quick second later by the pure white energy from Tony's hands.

There was a brief pause as Bucky sprang to his feet and locked eyes with Tony. Steve couldn't see what passed silently between them, but then they turned their focus to the rest of the soldiers still surrounding them.

Bucky's body blurred and Steve blinked rapidly. He suddenly felt weightless, and he slumped slowly against the hard ground, staring up into the sky. He knew that he should care more, or maybe try to help, but, oddly, he felt like he was in good hands; Bucky and Tony would take care of this, and they would make it out alive.

He must have drifted, even with all the screams of pain and sound of guns, but he came back to awareness in a shock of white hot agony.

His eyes snapped open, and he let out a snarl of pain. He too sharp gaze flicked around, hands clutching at the dirt, before he focused on the looming figure of Lynch, who stood over him.

The man, who had appeared unflappable even when Bucky had a gun pressed to his head, had a barely suppressed look of fury etched on his face. He had a Berretta gripped in his hand and was pointing it at Steve's face.

Waves of pain were washing over Steve, and it took him a moment to realize that Lynch had his boot grinding into his leg wound.

Steve's eyes flicked down to the boot and he considered shoving it away, but the gun in his face demanded more attention and he looked from the boot to Lynch, tiredly wondering how many more time he was going be face to face with the barrel of a pistol.

"Are you going to shoot me?" Steve asked, voice scraping against his throat. "Bucky will kill you."

Lynch shrugged, gun swaying with the movement. "After we are done with him, he will not be your Bucky anymore."

"Tony won't let that happen."

"He's a minor inconvenience."

Steve's eyebrows rose; Tony was a whole lot more than a minor inconvenience, and they both knew it. Lynch was delusional if he thought he was going to make it out of this with Bucky in captivity.

Steve pushed himself up into a sitting position, arms shaking underneath his weight. The pressure from Lynch's foot lessened, but stayed on Steve.

Steve jerked his chin upwards, glaring at Lynch. "Get it done then."

Lynch's eyes narrowed, as if he couldn't believe that Captain America wasn't afraid to die and this was some kind of trick.

But that wasn't true.

Steve didn't want to die, but with Tony here, that meant help was on the way and soon Bucky would finally be free of HYDRA. Maybe not for good, and maybe someone else, like Fury, would swoop in and demand Bucky work for them, but what mattered at this very moment was that Bucky wouldn't go back with HYDRA tonight.

Tonight, he would walk away a free man, and Steve could die in peace with that knowledge.

When Steve didn't make any movement to get away from him, Lynch gave a half-shrug and straightened his arm.

Fear clogged his throat, but Steve didn't close his eyes; he would face his death head on.

But then Lynch's eyes widened and he gave a gurgle as a black arrow suddenly sprouted out of his throat.

Confused, Steve's head cocked to the side and he frowned. Lynch's body started to crumble forward, blood gushing from his neck, and Steve had to hurriedly throw both hands up to catch the body before it crushed him into the dirt.

He shoved Lynch away from him and looked up again.

In Lynch's place stood Clint, black compound bow in hand. He was backlit by the headlights and looked like a damn avenging angel, and Steve had never been so happy to see him.

"Hey, Steve," he said, throwing Steve a wild grin.

"Clint," Steve managed to get out through numb lips.

Clint didn't say anything else, instead he turned on his heel, loading another arrow onto his bow as he went.

"Hey," Steve called after him. "What about me?"

Clint didn't turn back around; he was too busy manipulating his bow to shoot effectively in the close quarters to kill the remaining HYDRA men, who were scattering; there didn't seem to be many left now.

Steve thought he might have been hallucinating as he squinted into the dim light, but he could have sworn that when Bucky caught sight of Clint they stopped in the midst of the blood and bodies and gave each other a high five.

"What the hell," Steve muttered, blinking rapidly. He lifted one hand up to rub at his eyes. "I'll just stay here and bleed out, I guess."

"Not today, Cap."

Steve's head twisted around, and there was Sam. A smile broke out across Steve's mouth and relief flooded his body.

"Sam."

Sam paced forward and then crouched down to Steve's level. His eyes raked over Steve, and his mouth twisted.

"You're not looking great, Steve."

Wearily, Steve nodded. "I know."

A first-aid kit appeared in Sam's hands, and Steve watched in a detached sort of way as Sam put the kit down and used deft fingers to roam over Steve's body, looking for wounds.

"It's just my leg," Steve said with a short nod towards his outstretched leg.

Sam glanced down at the leg and then back up to Steve's face. A frown danced across his features and he cracked open the kit.

"Steve," Sam said, pausing as he took out a white bandage, "I need to...hell, 'sorry' isn't good enough, but that's what I am. I'm sorry for everything that happened down in that basement. I should never have sided with Stark about giving Barnes up." He paused, mouth working. "Steve, I'm—,"

"It's okay," Steve said, cutting him off with a short shake of his head. "You're here now. That's what matters."

Relief flashed across Sam's face, easy to see, even in the dark. He cleared his throat. "Right. Let's get you patched up while the others..." he trailed off, hands in the middle of rewrapping Steve's leg with a better bandage than Bucky's ragged shirt.

His eyes were glued to Steve's side. "Were you shot anywhere else?"

Steve shook his head.

"Shit, Steve," Sam snapped, leaning over to carefully peel back Steve's shirt hem, revealing bloody skin.

Steve blinked in surprise at the blood gushing out of a small hole that was punched into his side, near his hip. He must have been shot twice and hadn't noticed when the second, more serious, bullet hit him. It had been bleeding freely this whole time, hidden by his dark, sweat soaked shirt.

"That...explains some things," Steve huffed out.

"No shit," Sam growled, abandoning the already bandaged leg and going to Steve's side with his hands.

The sudden pressure from Sam made Steve hiss, body going rigid.

He let out a slow breath, trying to release the pain with it. He knew he was in good hands with Sam, and Bucky was finally free; that was what mattered.

He let himself collapse down, eyes blinking slowly up at Sam.

"I'm...I'm going to sleep now."

"Aw, fuck," Sam swore, but Steve wasn't paying him any attention; he was too busy being swallowed by the tight grip of unconsciousness.

It did occur to Steve that falling asleep probably wasn't the best thing, and it might be cause for concern, but he didn't care because Bucky was going to be okay.

.

.

A/N: Sorry for the delay, but I've been working my ass off with this chapter, trying to get it right. I really hope that it turned out how I pictured.

This is kinda the Big chapter and I really hope that everyone digs it and it's satisfying. Though, not gonna lie, I feel like this whole fic is a bit of a mess. Yikes, I guess.

So we've got just one more chapter (probably), and I've vaguely started on it already. Hopefully, I'll get it done quickly and be able to post it within the week.

Lastly, thanks to everyone for reading/favoriting/following/and especially reviewing! You guys rock.


	21. Chapter 21

[21]

Steve woke up slowly, mouth tasting like cotton. His body ached; it felt like one large bruise spread out to every inch of his skin, but there wasn't any particularly sharp pain coming from his leg or his side, so he figured that was a good sign.

He kept his eyes closed, breathing evenly as he slowly tried to get his bearings; he wanted to make sure he knew where he was and what level of danger he was in.

He didn't know if Tony, Clint, and Sam had even been real or delusions from his gunshot wounds. He could feel that he was lying on something soft, likely a hospital bed, but that only meant that he was being cared for, whether it was by HYDRA or SHIELD remained to be seen.

There was a faint sound of a door clicking open and someone shuffling in. "He's still asleep?" a male voice said, and Steve's pulse jumped when he realized the voice was talking to someone already in the room, but he hadn't even noticed another presence in with him.

"No, he's awake," the woman's voice was smooth and low, and relief immediately poured through Steve at the sound of it.

No wonder he hadn't felt anyone else in the room; Natasha had always been able to mask her presence, making it almost impossible to tell where she was at any given time.

Steve cracked his eyes open, wincing at the light streaming from the windows. After blinking away tears that sprang to his eyes from the brightness, Steve turned his head slightly, trying to look around. The room was sterile and bright, but larger than a normal hospital room, and except for Natasha and the doctor, he was alone.

He let his head loll to the side so he could eye Natasha, who was curled like a cat on a large plush chair, dressed in black leggings and a dark red top. Clearly, some time had passed since their escape, but Steve didn't know how much.

"Where's...?" he croaked, throat bobbing. He grimaced at the lack of moisture, hand vaguely trying to go to his neck as if touching it would somehow help.

"Barnes is in another room. He insisted that he was fine, but the doctors wanted to make sure," Natasha answered easily.

Steve nodded. That was good; Bucky would heal quickly with or without help from the doctors, but there were bruises and fractures from their time with HYDRA that needed attention, and more than that, the mental scars were sufficient and _wouldn't_ heal quickly.

Steve's eyes drifted to the ceiling. He wished that he could have protected Bucky from all of it; that he could have been the protector for once, the role that Bucky had always played when they were growing up, but the pain from HYDRA had started long before Steve could have done anything.

HYDRA had their claws in him before Steve was even in Europe during the war, and the serum hadn't been pumping through his veins until Bucky was long gone, fighting for the Allies, and too far away for Steve to do anything. He never had any chance of stopping this from happening.

"Steve?" Natasha's voice was soft, and when Steve focused back on her, he noticed that the doctor had quietly left the room and that Steve had silent tears running down his face, soaking into the pillow on either side of his head.

"Shit," he mumbled and lifted a hand that was stuck full of an IV to scrub at his face roughly. "I'm sorry."

Natasha shook her head. "You don't have to apologize."

"It's stupid," Steve said.

"It's not."

"No, it is," Steve insisted with a thick laugh. "I'm crying because...well, I want to protect Bucky, and I _know_ that I can't change anything that happened to him in the past, and it's the present that's important, but—look at what happened. I finally find him, and the first thing that happens is HYDRA swoops in and takes us both. There's no telling what his recapture did to his mental state. Not that I knew what was going on up there to start with—"

"Steve," Natasha interjected, stopping his outburst. She straightened her legs, putting them to the floor so that she could lean forward, green eyes dark and serious. " _None_ of this is your fault."

Steve flapped a hand at her. "I know that."

"It doesn't seem like you do."

Steve wanted to argue, but he could feel a sob crawling its way up his throat; he tried to swallow it down, but it refused to go back and it kept bubbling up.

He sat up in the bed in a quick rush, burying his face into his hands before he let the sob out.

It was muffled, but he knew that it was still noticeable through his fingers. He tried to hold back the tears that followed, but then he decided to hell with it and just ignored Natasha while he cried.

It wasn't difficult to figure out why he was crying. It had all been too much; these last few days, months, years. First with Bucky dying, and then with Bucky alive, but good as dead, and now...now Bucky was back and Steve could finally allow himself to _feel_ that and everything from before he woke up in the ice. The grief for who Bucky had been, and now was, curled tightly around his throat, reminding him that while Bucky was back, he had still lost a part of his friend that he was never going to get back.

Steve roughly shoved that thought aside because no matter what his best friend—his brother was back.

He knew that his tears weren't just because of Bucky, but also because he would never truly have a place in this time, and that he had left more than just his friends and family behind in the 40's. It seemed like now, in the future, his whole identity revolved around being Captain America and that was all anyone cared about, but back in _his_ time, during the 40's, he had been more than just a guy with a shield.

But he couldn't think like because no matter what he did, he was never getting back to that time, but what he did have now was Bucky.

And because of that, Steve was finally _home_.

A soft hand touched his shoulder and Steve leaned into the touch, letting the warmth from Natasha's skin sink into him.

Abruptly, he stopped crying, the tears stopping like a faucet that had been turned off. He scrubbed at his face, knowing that it wouldn't do much to make the splotchy redness disappear, and then looked up at Natasha, who was now standing at his side.

Feeling a bit embarrassed, Steve offered her a sideways shrug.

"He's back, Steve," Natasha said softly, "and he's not going anywhere." She paused, head cocking to the side. "If he does, I'll drag his ass home for you."

A smile cracked Steve's lips.

"It's okay to be upset over what happened to both of you," Natasha said after a long beat of silence. She stepped back from Steve, letting her hand drop off his shoulder. "But time will help heal what happened."

Steve nodded; he knew that, he also knew that Bucky wasn't the only one that had more than just physical wounds brewing under the surface of his skin. Clearly, Steve was struggling more than he thought.

He leaned back against his pillows, settling deeper into the mattress. He eyed Natasha and then said, tiredly, "Fuck HYDRA."

A surprised laugh escaped Natasha's lips, both hands going up to her mouth, and she eyed Steve with a proud sort of wonder.

"Steve," she said, grin staying firmly on her mouth, "I don't think I've ever liked you more than I do right now."

A trickle of warmth settled on Steve's skin, spreading from his chest down to each of his limps, and he gave Natasha a small smile.

He wasn't exactly okay, but he knew that he would be.

.

.

Tony was walking briskly down the medical hall in his Tower, feet thumping loudly with purpose.

It had been a few days since they had gotten Steve and Barnes back, and at first Tony hadn't wanted to interfere with Steve's recovery, but after he got a good report back from Natasha and the doctor, Tony still didn't go to see his teammate.

Was he a coward? No.

Was he a little scared of Steve? Yes.

Did he need to suck it up and go see Steve? Also yes.

It was just that the last time he had even talked to Steve, he had suggested that they hand Barnes over to HYDRA and then after, when they were rescuing the two men, Tony had seen Steve lying motionless in the dirt with blood spilling into a pool around him. It wasn't a sight that Tony had ever associated with Steve. Steve was the strong one—the super soldier—always fighting and never giving up.

Tony wanted to scrub that image of Steve in the dirt from his mind until it was nothing more than a vague memory.

Tony's footsteps slowed as he neared one of the many rooms that lined the medical hall; it wasn't Steve's room, but he could hear two familiar voices wafting out of the open door.

"Fuck off, you're cheating! _Again_!" Clint's voice was easy to place, but the soft reply took Tony a second to recognize.

"You're just sore because you're used to being the fastest one in the room." There was a slight pause. "You better get used to losing, Barton."

Tony's eyes widened and his feet almost froze to the tiled floor; he hadn't ever heard Barnes speak so easily before. But then, Tony knew that he hadn't given Barnes a reason to do so.

He didn't want to be caught eavesdropping, so Tony quickened his pace and passed the open door without looking inside, although his curiosity was begging him to _just look_.

Both voices paused as he passed and, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of two figures hunched over the something spread out in front of them on the small coffee table that Tony (well, Pepper, really) had put in each room on the medical level. To make it look homier, Pepper had said.

He didn't dare stop, and when he left Barnes' room several yards behind him, Tony breathed a little easier.

He didn't know what to say to Barnes, anything that came to mind, died a swift death before they even made it to his mouth. It was difficult to wrap his head around Barnes; they had fought HYDRA together to save Steve, and Tony _knew_ that he couldn't blame Barnes for the Winter Soldier—not completely. It was clear that Barnes had suffered decades of torture, almost penance in Tony's eyes for the lives he had taken, and it was more than enough suffering for one man to endure.

But it didn't erase the fact that Tony had spent his young adult years without parents, and without their guidance had almost lost his life and his company to a man he thought he could trust.

Obviously, that couldn't be blamed completely on Barnes, but the anger and hurt that had come from it, he _did_ blame Barnes for—unjustly, of course.

Tony didn't think he would ever fully forgive Barnes for what had happened, but he didn't want Barnes dead anymore, so he counted that as a win. Or a first step. Or partial forgiveness. Whatever, it was something.

Lost in thoughts about blame, anger, and forgiveness, Tony belatedly realized that he was standing just outside Steve's room.

It felt like it was too soon and he wasn't ready yet. He grimaced at the closed door, fingers tapping at his thighs in a restless dance. He knew that Steve was awake; Natasha said he had been coherent when she had last seen him and was already healing. She had told him all this when she had dropped into Tony's locked workshop in the middle of the night. Her short report on Steve's health had been followed by a pointed look before she disappeared back the way she had come.

Before he could lose his nerve, Tony took a step forward and rapped his knuckles against the wood, and without waiting for an answer, he shoved open the door.

"Rogers! It's your resident—" He didn't finished his sentence as he caught sight of Steve.

"Hey Tony," Steve said as Tony swallowed the rest of his smartass comment. Steve was standing near the bed, dressed in comfortable jeans and t-shirt, cleaner and healthier than the last time Tony had seen him, and to Tony's absolute lack of surprise, Steve was neatly making his bed, apparently done with being bedridden in a hospital, even a private hospital in Avengers Tower.

Steve let the edge of the blanket he was holding drop and gave Tony a grin, more relaxed than Tony had ever seen him.

Tony narrowed his eyes at Steve and then strode further into the room. "Did the docs give you some drugs, Steve? Are you on drugs?" He poked Steve's shoulder, taking his life in his own hands, considering that he didn't think that he and Steve were okay yet.

Steve frowned at Tony's finger and shrugged it off. "What? No. I'm fine. I don't need any morphine—,"

"That's definitely not the type of drugs that I mean," Tony said with a fake laugh. He gave Steve a knowing wink, and suddenly wished that he could turn off his smartass personality; he hadn't come to irritate Steve, he had come to apologize.

Steve's frown deepened and exasperation clouded his features, a more familiar look that, surprisingly, helped Tony relax a bit.

He loosely crossed his arms over his chest and eyed Steve and then shifted to look at the made bed. "Are you leaving my humble residence so soon?"

Steve glanced around the bare room and offered a short shrug. "I'm not sure that it's a good idea to stay much longer."

 _Ouch_. That stung.

Tony blinked rapidly and nodded. "You're probably right."

Steve gave him a long look, concern suddenly flickering behind his eyes. "Tony...you're not going to—"

"No, Rogers, I'm not going to kill your pal," Tony interrupted, rolling his eyes. He tried to keep his voice light, but he wasn't sure that he managed.

Steve didn't get defensive at Tony's tone, but he did take a small step back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Good."

Silence fell over them for a beat too long, and Tony winced. He heaved a sigh and then said, "Look, Steve, I came here to apologize."

Steve opened his mouth, maybe to stop Tony, or maybe to wave away the words, but Tony didn't give him a chance to do anything and hurried on.

"Not just for letting HYDRA sweep in and take your friend, but also for not being able to do anything when they took you too. And I know that I can't blame Barnes forever, and I'm really trying to forgive him, I am, but even if I _do_ blame him, I don't want him dead. Not anymore, not after what HYDRA did to him—and you." More words, more apologizes and reasons for his actions pushed at his mouth, threatening to pour out, but Tony couldn't figure out a way to put it all into coherent sentences. It was a bit ironic that for once, he, the great Tony Stark, couldn't speak.

Steve didn't move closer, and Tony's hands tensed into fists; afraid of what Steve might do to him, but Steve was shaking his head. He uncrossed his arms; the movement made him look less angry.

"Tony, stop." He raised his hands as if he could physically could stop Tony from speaking. "I don't blame you for what happened."

Tony's eyes narrowed and he huffed out a disbelieving laugh.

" _I don't_ ," Steve repeated with force. "Maybe I should, but I don't. How can I? You lost your parents. I know what that's like. My folks died and...Well, if it wasn't for Bucky, I don't know what I would have done." Steve paused, mouth working for a moment. "I'm not trying to compare our tragedies or anything like that. But when I lost Bucky, I lost a part of myself too." Steve's throat bobbed as he swallowed roughly.

Tony shook his head. "Why are you telling me this?" It was hard to believe that Steve was _that_ good of a man. "How can you forgive me? Just like that?"

"What happened to me is nothing that happened to Bucky." Steve paused. He frowned. "Not just that, Tony, but I didn't tell you what happened to your parents when I suspected the truth. And you've forgiven me."

Tony chewed on his tongue; he hadn't thought about Steve's betrayal in a long time. It was so far in the past now, and more important matters had pressed their way to the surface, taking the place of Tony's anger.

When Tony didn't say anything, Steve spoke again, "I don't know what all of this means for us and the team, Tony, but here's what I do know: I'm leaving now, but I'm not going to be gone forever. I'm not abandoning you or the Avengers." He paused. "If you need me, no matter what, I'll be there."

.

.

The hot water was pouring down Bucky's skin. It was as hot as the faucet could go, and even then, it didn't feel hot enough.

It had been three months since HYDRA had captured him, and months since he had been in cryo, but Bucky couldn't seem to shake the feeling of ice. It clung to his bones and spread through his veins until he was shivering with the feeling of it.

Deep down he knew it wasn't the actual cold that was hovering inside him; he knew that it was going to take a lot more than a couple of months reprieve from cryo and some hot water to scrub the Winter Soldier away.

He might never be completely gone. That thought was hard to swallow; he had come to terms with the idea that he and the Winter Soldier were one and the same, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

A sudden pounding at the bathroom door startled Bucky and he jerked away from the stream of water. He brushed his wet hair out of his face with his flesh hand; no one else was supposed to be here.

His heart picked up its pace, beating wildly against his ribs, until he remembered that HYDRA wouldn't knock. His fear turned into annoyance and he glared through the glass shower door, waiting for the offending knocker to identify themselves.

"You're using up all the hot water!" Clint's voice hollered through the wood. "Hurry it up, Barnes!"

Of course it was Clint. Who else would it be?

Bucky narrowed his eyes and thought about shouting something back about Clint not even living here and if he didn't shut the hell up, Bucky was going to come out and strangle him with one hand.

But Bucky didn't, and instead shut the water off.

When he was mostly presentable, Bucky wandered out of the bathroom with his hair still wet and dripping, making damp patches on his dark shirt. He moved through Steve's Washington D.C. apartment while he absently combed through his hair with his flesh hand.

He tried not to look too closely at the items that Steve had lining his shelves or the pictures that hung on the walls with thick black frames. Most of it were things people could find in an antique store, but Steve said the old record player and prints of World War II propaganda posters made him think of home.

Bucky suspected that either someone else had decorated the apartment, or Steve really did just like how it all looked scattered across the living space.

But memories of Bucky's past with Steve during the Depression and the war were coming back in leaps and bounds, and seeing things from that past kept knocking Bucky off his feet for minutes at a time as the memory took control of him.

He preferred not to be incapacitated when Clint was over, so he kept his eyes straight ahead until he entered the kitchen. He paused just at the edge of the tiled floor, eyeing his friend, who had made himself at home, despite the fact that he did not live there.

Music was blaring from a speaker on the counter that Bucky vaguely recognized, but only because Clint had made it his mission to introduce Bucky to "all the classics," and this was one that Clint played the most.

Bucky shifted, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched Clint bop around the kitchen, pulling things out of cupboards, seemingly at random. He was making a small pile on the granite countertop, and Bucky wondered if it was worth asking Clint what he was doing, knowing that the answer probably would turn into a demonstration that needed "volunteers from the audience."

He heaved a sigh and shuffled closer to the counter, pulling out one of the round stools and settling himself on it. He tucked his feet into the rungs of the wooden stool and shifted until he was comfortable.

"How did you get in here?" Bucky asked when the music paused to switch to a new song.

Instead of answering, Clint danced over to the speaker and fiddled with it until the music dropped drastically. Quiet enough that Bucky could actually hear his thoughts again.

Clint spun around to face Bucky, a wild grin on his lips. He raked a hand through his blonde hair, making it stick up in different spots.

"What? No, 'hello, Clint, my only friend. Nice to see you again after a month of absence.'" He paused and then added, "Don't bother telling me Steve is your friend—clearly he's family, so it doesn't count."

Bucky rolled his eyes at Clint, but didn't disagree.

"Speaking of the Man with a Plan," Clint continued, placing a hand on his hip and looking around, "where is he?"

"Out," Bucky answered, leaning an elbow onto the cool counter. "Stop changing the subject. How'd you get in?"

Clint shrugged. "Through the window." He gestured vaguely over Bucky's shoulder.

Bucky's eyes narrowed and he twisted around, carefully looking at the windows closest to them.

"Don't worry, I enabled the alarm again after I came through," Clint said, bringing Bucky's attention back to him.

Bucky stared at Clint, blinking slowly.

Clint stared back, shifting from foot to foot. He shook his head, breaking eye contact with Bucky. "So listen, I really just wanted to stop by and see how you're doing." His voice had dropped its cheerful lilt and had taken a serious tone.

Bucky considered the question, eyes dropping down to his hands that had twisted together, metal and flesh blending into one. How _was_ he doing?

It had been three months since he and Steve had escaped from HYDRA and they had both recovered from their physical wounds, but he knew that Steve had nightmares some nights, and Bucky didn't think a single night passed when he didn't wake up in a cold sweat. What had happened to them had been brief enough, but it was thoughts of _before_ , when Bucky had been completely ensnared by HYDRA, that haunted them.

He knew that Steve still blamed himself for a lot of what had happened, and it didn't matter how many times Bucky told him that it wasn't his fault, Steve couldn't seem to shake those lingering feelings of guilt.

As for Bucky, he knew that he was getting better; it helped that he and Steve weren't lying low and recovering like Steve had told the Avengers. It wasn't exactly a lie, they _were_ recovering, but in a more violent way than was implied.

Each HYDRA base that Bucky remembered and helped destroy seemed to mend a little bit more of himself. Obviously, this wasn't the greatest coping method for either of them, but it was also important to stomp out the rest of HYDRA before they gained the courage to come back.

"I'm okay," Bucky finally said. He looked up from his hands to Clint's skeptical face.

"That was a mighty long pause there, buddy. Sounds like a lie to me."

Bucky rolled his eyes; a habit that he always seemed to develop around Clint.

"I'm fine, Clint." He paused and then sighed. "I'm getting better."

Clint accepted that answer with a nod. "Good."

Bucky waited, expecting Clint to pry further, but he didn't. He turned and went to the pile of measuring cups and flour and other unidentifiable items that he had been getting out.

"How do you feel about cupcakes?" he asked as he began to pull bowls out of cabinets. He set them next to the pile and then turned back to find something else.

Bucky didn't answer, instead he watched, with his head cocked to the side, as Clint opened cabinet after cabinet, clearly looking for something in particular.

"Uh, sorry, not cupcakes. You heathens don't have any pans for that," Clint said, from where he was crouched behind the counter. "How about cookies?"

His head appeared at the edge of the counter like a gopher popping out of the ground. He waited expectantly, eyebrows high.

Bucky let a small huff of laughter. "Cookies are good."

"Excellent!" Clint said, and then disappeared again.

An undetermined amount of time later, peanut butter cookies were baking in the oven, and Bucky and Clint were somehow covered in spots of flour and peanut butter.

So when someone knocked at the door, Bucky glared at Clint, who raised his hands.

"This isn't my fault! I told you we needed aprons."

Bucky growled and Clint took a step back, but was wagging a finger like some damn mother scolding her child. He clearly wasn't as frightened as he should be.

"Listen, man, you can growl at me all you want, but it's not going to open the door for you and its definitely not going to clean you up." Clint frowned. "Wait, should you even be opening the door...?"

"I'm not four years old," Bucky said with a snort. "I can open the door to strangers if I want to, Barton." He attempted to wipe some flour off his arm, but it didn't seem to do much good.

"Yeah, you're 100 something _and_ a known assassin," Clint called as Bucky started walking towards the front door. "You go ahead and do what you want."

Bucky hid a smile, feeling Clint's own grin pointed at his retreating back. Somehow, in the middle of beating the eggs together and Clint yelling at him not to add the butter yet, Bucky had felt himself relax.

It had been too long since it had been just him and Clint, and even then, back in the basement of Fury's compound, there had been a glass cage surrounding Bucky and always the lingering weight of knowing that HYDRA coming for him.

Now, that weight had been lifted, not just because he was with Steve and the two of them were working together to slowly help Fury dismantle the remaining HYDRA bases in the U.S. and even a few in Europe, but also because Bucky finally felt like he _belonged_ somewhere. He wasn't just a nameless weapon to be used and then shelved until they were ready for him. Now, he was valued, and even had friends (okay, maybe just one, but Clint was more than enough for Bucky).

These thoughts swirled inside Bucky's head, and he almost forgot that his black shirt was spotted with flour and peanut butter was smeared on his neck, dangerously close to his loose hair, but then he answered the door and it all came rushing back.

Bucky blinked rapidly at the face that greeted him outside Steve's apartment, one hand still gripping the door while the other unconsciously patted at his pants as if that would somehow help make the flour disappear.

"Uh," Tony Stark said, mouth hanging open as his eyes raked Bucky up and down.

Bucky forced himself to relax, and quirked his mouth into something that resembled a grin. "I thought you were intelligent."

Stark's mouth snapped shut and a frown appeared. "You got mouthy."

Bucky shrugged, swiping a hand casually at his face, he was pretty sure there was something on it, but he didn't know if he managed to clean it up or just made it worse. Didn't matter; it was worth it to see the look on Stark's face. "I've always been. It just got beat outta me for a while."

Bucky didn't get a chance to see the horrified look flash across Stark's face because a memory chose that moment to knock into him.

" _Show some respect!" the voice snarled._

 _Bucky sneered back, spitting blood out of his mouth. It hit the stone floor wetly and the soldiers in the room all glanced at it, but Bucky was too busy feeling his teeth with his tongue to pay attention to them._

 _It felt like some of his teeth might be loose, but it couldn't be helped; he wasn't giving these bastards anything. Didn't matter what they tried to do to him, or what they took from him._

 _Unbidden his eyes wondered down to where his arm was supposed to be and he swallowed quickly, wincing at the taste of blood as it oozed down his throat; he_ wasn't _going to keep thinking about that. The arm was gone and it wasn't coming back; he didn't have time to get all weepy over it. He needed to stay strong until Steve and the rest of the team came for him, and Bucky had no doubt in his mind that they would._

 _But._

 _A quiet voice in his head reminded him that he had fallen off a train; Steve had to think that he was dead because no one should have survived that fall. No one normal anyway._

 _Fucking Zola must have done something to him—_

 _A fist struck his face, sending his head snapping back. It slammed against the wall they had him chained to, causing him to see stars for a brief second._

" _No one is coming for you, Soldat—,"_

 _Bucky straightened his head and frowned at the speaker, confused. "I don't speak Russian, you dumb prick. How many times do I have to—?"_

" _Soldier," a new voice answered shortly. This one sounded American and Bucky rounded on him, surprise making him jerk against the cuff around his remaining wrist. His bruised skin protested the movement, but Bucky was too busy gaping at the newcomer, who was definitely an American._

" _It means 'soldier'," the same voice continued. "And trust me, you'll be speaking Russian sooner than you think."_

 _Bucky swallowed down the betrayal that was rising at the thought of an American helping these people, and shot the man a bloody grin. "Not likely."_

 _The man shook his head as if bored with this conversation already. "You think that your friends will come for you. Captain America himself, right?"_

 _Bucky didn't say anything._

" _Well, they're not coming. You're alone down here, and if you don't shut your fucking mouth and get with the program, you're going to wish that you had died on that mountain."_

 _Silence fell over them for a long beat while Bucky glared at the huddle of soldiers in the damp room. Helplessness and despair were quickly spreading through him and he didn't know if he could stop it; he didn't know if he could hold on to the sliver of hope that he had been carrying for so long, it was getting too small to grip._

 _But he remembered Steve and knew that his friend could achieve the impossible, so he straightened his spine and sent a shit eating grin across the room._

" _Nah, pal, you don't know Stev—Rogers. He'll come." He paused. "In the meantime, fuck you," he jerked his chin at one soldier, moving on to the next with the each one of his words, "and fuck you, and fuck you, and especially fuck you, traitor."_

 _The American didn't look impressed, but he didn't look bored anymore either. Bucky figured that was probably not a good thing, but he steeled himself for what was coming next and clung to his hope with everything he had._

"—Barnes?! What the hell!"

"Don't touch him, Stark."

It was Clint's voice that brought Bucky back. His awareness of his surroundings was sudden and it only took a second to realize that he was splintering Steve's front door with his metal hand.

His breath was coming in short gasps and he could feel Stark hovering just outside in the hall and Clint somewhere behind him. Neither of them were trying to touch him, which was a good thing; Bucky was pretty sure he would have killed them if they had tried.

The dull pain that came with the memories of his past hurt, but it served as a reminder that he was human and, more importantly, _alive_.

Bucky held onto that thought and carefully unclenched his hand, wincing at the state of the door. He was going to have to repair that, preferably before Steve got home, but it probably wouldn't happen; Steve was supposed to be back soon.

"Bucky...?" Clint's voice came again, softer this time.

Bucky swallowed roughly, throat dry. He pushed away from the door, almost staggering into Clint, who he felt reach out to steady him. He removed his hands just as quickly though, making sure Bucky had all the space he needed.

"I'm good," Bucky finally said, voice hoarse as it scrapped its way out of his throat. He used both hands to smooth his hair away from his face; the movement helped calm him. He took a shuddering breath and then lifted his eyes to look at Clint first.

Clint, even covered in flour, looked like he was ready to fight whoever Bucky needed in a second's notice.

"It was a rough one," Bucky admitted quietly.

Clint's throat bobbed as he swallowed and he shifted, trying to look more casual. "I haven't seen one like that before."

"Um...," Stark's voice broke into their soft conversation, "I've _never_ seen that before. What the hell _was_ that? You're not going to...I don't know, kill us or something?"

Bucky heaved out a whistling sigh and turned to fully face Stark, while Clint made a sound lowly in the back of his throat.

"No," Bucky said, eyeing Stark's pale face. "I'm not going to kill you." He was tempted to add, _this time_ , just to fuck with Stark a little, but he didn't think he had any place doing that to the man whose parents had died at Bucky's hands.

"What do you even want?" Clint snapped out, voice barely contained.

Bucky's raised his eyebrows, glancing over to his friend. He didn't know that Clint had such strong feelings towards Stark.

"C'mon, Barton," Stark sighed, "I thought we were good. I thought we'd figured this shit out when you slugged me back in Montana?"

Clint shrugged. "It was a momentary thing. Not a forgiveness thing."

"Honestly," Stark said, heat starting to spread in his voice, "if anyone should still be pissed at me, it's him." He jerked his chin at Bucky, while he glared at Clint.

"I'm not pissed at you," Bucky said tiredly, and then waved a hand at Clint. "Back off, Clint. Please."

He waited until Clint unclenched his fists and stepped away, going back into the kitchen before he looked at Stark again.

"You just triggered a memory." Bucky didn't know why he was bothering to explain to Stark what had happened, but it didn't stop him from continuing, "It wasn't a good one and now...now I'm back and you need to tell me what you're doing here."

Stark mulled over that for a couple of beats, fingers tapping against the side of his thigh as he lightly frowned at Bucky; he didn't look angry. It was more like he was trying to figure out what he was supposed to do next.

"Are you looking for Steve?" Bucky asked when it didn't seem like Stark was going to answer his question.

Stark's head bobbed. "Uh, yeah. Looking for you too."

Bucky's eyebrows rose; he didn't think Stark would ever willingly seek him out. "Why?"

"Because I know Steve's story about relaxing here in D.C. is bullshit. I know the two of you have a super-secret HYDRA hunting thing going on here."

Bucky's lips thinned, but he didn't say anything; he wasn't sure where this is going, and he wasn't going to give Stark any information until he knew what Stark's endgame was.

"And," Stark continued, uncomfortable with the silence, "I just wanted to make sure you knew what you're doing."

Bucky almost snorted; from the cobbled together memories that he had managed to recall, this was exactly what he and Steve had done back during the war. And anyway, they were both super soldiers, and were more than capable of taking care of themselves.

"It hasn't been that long since...you know," Stark added, "and from what I just saw, you shouldn't be in the field at all."

Bucky's lips pulled back over his teeth into a small snarl. "Try and stop me."

"I don't think I could, even if I wanted to."

"Then what do you want?" Bucky demanded, already sick of this stiff conversation.

"I want to go with you," Stark said, the words almost tripping out of his mouth in his hurry to get them out. "I want to help. HYDRA needs to be stopped and I want to help do it."

Bucky blinked slowly at Stark; it wasn't what he had been expecting, but it did make sense. Bucky wasn't the only one that HYDRA had hurt.

He focused on Stark, who looked worried, like Bucky might refuse him.

"Tony?" Steve's voice sounded in the hall, halting any answer Bucky might have given. Steve appeared behind Stark a second later. His eyes flicked to Bucky as he asked, "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, you know, just having a friendly chat," Stark said, half-turning to look at Steve.

Steve glanced at the splintered wood of the door, a frown flashing across his face. His arms were full of groceries and he juggled them awkwardly as he paused on the threshold of his apartment.

He kept looking from Stark to Bucky, his silent question deafening.

Bucky shoulders rose in a shrug. "He's not here to kill me."

Steve relaxed minutely.

"And anyway," Bucky continued, "Clint is here." It was an unspoken statement that Clint would've had Bucky's back no matter what Stark might have tried.

"Clint?" Steve said, frowning slightly. "I thought he was in Munich. How'd—?"

"Through the window," Bucky said.

"That doesn't surprise me at all," Steve said, smiling hitching across his lips. He then apparently decided everything was as normal as it could be and sidled past Stark and Bucky, and then continued into the kitchen.

Bucky heard him greet Clint and then a quiet murmur of their voices floated back to him; they were probably talking about him, which, to be fair, was one of their mutual interests.

Bucky didn't look at Stark or wait for him to make a move. Instead, he silently padded away from the broken door and man.

In the kitchen, Clint was pulling the cookies out of the oven, cursing loudly.

"Those better not be burnt," Bucky said, circling to stand next to Steve at the counter.

"They're not! They're just...a little toastier than we wanted."

Bucky glared without heat. He could feel Steve's eyes taking in the flour and peanut butter on his skin, but he didn't ask what had happened; probably used to Bucky's strange friendship with Clint.

When Tony entered the kitchen, no one brought up the stifling strangeness of the four of them being in the same room after what had happened in the basement three months ago.

Bucky almost wanted to pick a fight with someone, just to break the silence that enveloped them as he and Clint cleaned up their mess and Steve called for takeout while Stark watched.

But he didn't. He knew better than to do that, not when he and Stark seemed to have reached some sort of shaky peace.

The food arrived and the silence continued to choke Bucky as they quietly ate their rice and chicken. Clint attempted a few jokes that fell flat until he shut up and just sent weirded out looks across the table to Bucky.

Just when Bucky thought he was going to explode, Stark spoke up.

"So, Barnes and I were talking about your therapy these last few months."

Steve's fork froze halfway up his mouth. "Excuse me?"

Stark waved a hand. "I know all about it." He looked at Clint, almost apprehensively. "Steve and Barnes are—"

"Yeah, I know," Clint cut in. He pushed his empty plate away and sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "Why do you think I was in Munich?"

"You were in Munich?"

Clint rolled his eyes. "Yeah, scouting the place out for those two to come busting in and burn the base down. Did you think that Steve and Bucky were single handedly taking on HYDRA...and winning?"

Stark glared. "It crossed my mind."

Bucky shrugged. "We probably could do it, but this way is easier."

Stark's head swiveled from Clint to Bucky before he finally settled on Steve. "Why'd you lie to us?"

Steve carefully set his fork down. His mouth worked before he finally said, "I didn't want to burden anyone with this mess. It started with me during the 40's, and, more than anything else, this war is mine and Bucky's."

"It's mine too," Stark snapped.

Bucky eyed him, arms going rigid at the rise in volume.

"You should have told me," Stark said, struggling to keep his emotions in check. "I want to help, and I'm sick of you keeping things from me."

Steve flinched like he had been struck, and Bucky half-pushed his chair out so he could get at Stark, but stopped when Steve sent him a quick glance.

"You don't get to decide who gets to bring down these bastards, Steve," Stark said. "This isn't just your fight."

Bucky silently agreed. At least with the last sentence.

Heavy silence fell over them again while they waited for Steve to say something.

He shifted in his seat, eyes going to Bucky. The unspoken question was there and Bucky gave him a nod. Steve nodded back and then turned his attention to Stark.

"Alright."

Stark blinked in surprise; possibly at the easy agreement.

"We're going to Munich tomorrow," Steve said. "You've got yourself a seat on the jet." His eyes flicked to Clint. "You too, Clint."

"We've fought on our own for long enough," Bucky said, speaking up for the first time. He could feel their eyes on him, but he only focused on Steve. "HYDRA may have many heads and all that bullshit, but we've got each other. Family. And we're always stronger together."

He didn't really mean to include Stark in his words, but his eyes settled on the other man without meaning to.

Stark blinked back in surprise, and Bucky could see something clicking into place in Stark's eyes. He didn't know what it was, forgiveness or acceptance maybe, but whatever it was, Bucky suddenly knew that Stark would have his six.

Maybe he wouldn't be Stark for long. Maybe he would be Tony soon enough.

Just like that the awkwardness broke and Clint started a story about how he got lost in Oslo without any shoes.

Bucky only listened with half an ear, thinking over what his life had become.

This small band, missing Sam and the red head, wasn't the Howling Commandos and Bucky sure as hell wasn't back in 1940, but he hadn't felt like he was back home since this moment.

He had Clint and Howard Stark's son, who were willing to fight alongside him to bring down HYDRA, and more importantly, he had Steve back.

Steve was...well, Steve was his home.

.

.

END

.

.

A/N: Aaaand we're done.

In this (final) chapter, I really wanted to show the fallout of what had happened to all of them, and to have them realize and accept that they may have gotten out of this mess, but it doesn't exactly end there. There's always going to be a struggle of just living and the important thing is to have the right people surrounding you. Don't know if my point got across, but what the hell.

Also, I want to take the time to thank every single one of you guys for reading and giving me encouragement to continue and finish this fic. It's been a different experience for me and I really hope that you enjoyed it as much as I did.

Lastly, I've kinda got a vague idea of writing a more light-hearted fic about Clint becoming a substitute teacher for Peter Parker. It would sorta be in this fic's universe, but probably not because Civil War didn't happen in this AU. Obviously, I haven't fleshed anything out, but I guess I'm wondering if this is something that people would be interested in? Let me know! Or not. It's cool.

Alright. I'm done rambling.

Again. THANK YOU for reading!


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